


Step Out Of The Light

by Arkada



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Aladdin (2019) fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusader!Nicolò, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Crusade, Jinn!Yusuf, M/M, Power Imbalance, Slight Dom/Sub, Temporary Character Death, Touch-Starved, Yusuf al-Kaysani is a strong independent jinn who don't need no man, denial is a river in egypt, sex-positive asexual character, yusuf is jafar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27654635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkada/pseuds/Arkada
Summary: The crusaders find a demon in their ranks, an unnatural monster in human guise that cannot be killed by any man.Desperate, they throw their captive to another demon, one said to obey the command of whoever rubs a certain lamp in the desert.And Nicolò meets Yusuf.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 136
Kudos: 523





	1. The Hollow Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Various source materials remain beyond my possession.

Nicolò learns he cannot die at the gates of Nicaea.

The lesson repeats itself at the gates of Antiochia, and Agrabah, and Jerusalem. He rises, only to fall again, and rise again, an endless and pointless cycle of blood and too-quick agony. There is no meaning to it that he can see, no reason for him to be trapped on Earth. He is not Christ, whose sacrifice saved humanity. Nicolò’s deaths are small and meaningless and unremarked, and bring no good to anyone. He is no Messiah; no man here will follow the younger son of a peasant farmer, one of thousands of mediocre soldiers. Besides, Nicolò has nothing of worth to share. Nothing but a strange immunity to death, which will not spread.

He has tried. Smearing his blood on a dead man’s wounds does not make them close, and his most fervent prayers do not see the women and children of the Holy Land’s cities spared in his place. When he wakes in a field of corpses, he is the only one that stirs. Heaven remains barred to him alone.

He would think this was Purgatory, save that the Pope had sworn every crusader was cleansed of all sin and that God smiled on their mission. It cannot be that Nicolò’s sins were not lifted by the cross on his chest and the sword he took up in defense of his faith. He has done all that could be asked of any man, and died in God’s service - how can it not be enough?

Nicolò does not understand it, but it does not seem he is required to. He heals from every blow regardless of his will or wit about the matter. No amount of pleading or screaming or weeping will put him in a grave.

Eventually he stops trying, and simply marches where the commanders lead and lifts his sword when they order it. If God has a plan for Nicolò, he is not meant to know it. In that regard he remains the same as any other man, even if his own path has turned strange. He will find a way to live with it.

He must; it may be that he cannot die of disease or age either, and then what will become of him?

He does not have an answer.

His countrymen learn he cannot die at the gates of Ascalonia.

Three of them find him alive, but still far from whole; Nicolò cannot keep them from watching his guts crawl back inside his ribs. One of them turns away from the sight and vomits over his boots. The others are not so squeamish, and continue to bear witness to the whole ugly process.

Nicolò still does not know whether his healing is a horror or a wonder. The soldiers make up their minds far quicker. The visceral disgust on their faces changes to something with much more weight.

“This is impossible,” one of them growls, and his hand tightens on the hilt of his sword. “This is - sorcery.”

Nicolò has come up with a dozen theories, attempting to explain his condition to himself, that might serve as excuses: that he carries a holy relic, or that he was personally blessed by any one of the princes on crusade. He cannot speak them while his lungs are still filled with his own blood. The soldiers stare in grim silence and draw their own conclusions with far more certainty than Nicolò has been able to manage.

The one who spoke lifts his sword. “Enough,” he grunts, and swings it down hard.

Nicolò holds up a shaking hand in his defense and makes a feeble attempt to turn away from the blow. The soldier does not hesitate to stab him through the back instead.

Nicolò blinks and breathes again - _tries_ to breathe, but it catches, tears through him, splits him open and slicks his insides with hot blood. He gasps again and the pain only worsens. He starts to crawl away-

Blinks, breathes, stares through the same blinding pain at the same grains of sand. He tries to crawl again and cuts himself anew, gouged through from back to belly-

Blinks, breathes, chokes on the air when his lungs won’t obey, and holds _still_. Three deaths so fast must be some sort of record, his hysterical mind supplies. It is better than thinking on the blade lancing through his stomach, or the way that bastard cur of a soldier _left_ his sword in place as if unsatisfied to kill Nicolò once. The sword is too heavy for Nicolò to lift, with the little strength that attends him after a death, but if he is lucky and can heal everything else around it before dying again, he may have time to-

A blow to the side - a brutal kick - makes him convulse. He tastes blood, cuts something vital on the sword again, and-

Blinks, breathes - _breathes_ , oh God, that sword gone and the gaping wound closing itself unopposed. Nicolò presses his forehead into the sand and waits for the pain to fade. It recedes bit by bit like the tide going out.

“Praise be to God,” he exhales, and then screams as another blow shatters his ribs.

Through the fresh, bone-deep ache he hears a new voice. Is the story already spreading? Nicolò goes cold with more than the pain of broken bones grinding together.

Three men, he had a chance to convince in his favor; more, fueled by rumor as well as the evidence of their eyes, he does not think he can bend.

“Keep Him out of your mouth, demon,” the voice says. “Your curses are not welcome here.”

 _Tell that to whatever cursed me_ , Nicolò thinks. For the briefest instant he feels the prick of the blade going into his neck, before his next death takes him, mercifully swift.

He does not blink, and breathes as shallowly as he can. He really must learn to be reborn _quietly_ , and pay a good deal more attention to his surroundings before they can pay attention to him.

There were three Crusaders before; now he hears rattling armor and shifting steps and raised voices of at least a dozen. Foreigners have joined the Genoese who found him first, and Nicolò must listen hard to parse through the several languages flying between them.

They know what he is and they do not like it. He will not die, but they refuse to suffer him to live. One suggests they take Nicolò to a bishop and let him sort it out; another says they cannot risk letting Nicolò work his black magic on someone so important to Christendom. Those who observed his recovery swiftly convince the others that he cannot be killed by a blade.

“The desert will kill him,” one says. “Leave him here, take the horses, take the water, not even a demon can survive that.”

Nicolò refrains from advising them that he can, in fact, survive the desert. He already has, on a number of marches with limited supplies. A man with no water will live for about three days, and each death seems to buy Nicolò another three days before the next. Perhaps they will simply walk away and let him sort himself out once they’re gone.

 _“_ He will follow us,” says the voice - one of the voices - that killed him. “He will slip those bonds eventually and then who is to say we will not pay for angering a demon?”

Bonds? Ah - Nicolò’s wrists are tied behind his back, and another coil of rope holds his arms to his chest. There is the scratch of rope around his neck too, a noose or collar doubtless holding him to something. That is less simple, but the soldiers are correct that with time he will surely be able to free himself.

 _“_ He cannot die at any man’s hand,” says another, sounding desperate. “How do we kill that which does not die?”

A tentative voice, uncertain of itself. “If a man cannot kill him, what about another demon?”

That earns a derisive snort. “I suppose you keep one in your pocket for such occasions?”

A round of laughter greets the joke, until another voice speaks, low and contemplative. “The Saracens have one.”

The laughter goes silent.

Nicolò’s heart skips. If there _is_ a demon, and if it can kill him…

Would it matter? Does he _want_ to live or die? He’s never had to ask himself that question before. After enough rebirths he was satisfied the choice was no longer his, and what he wanted didn’t seem relevant.

He tests the bonds around his wrists. They are tied well and tight, with no yield in them. It seems it is still not his choice.

Nicolò’s captors must know he is alive by now - no recovery has ever taken him this long, certainly none of the ones they saw - but they continue to plot his execution over his head. He does not fight them. He doubts the warrior exists who can defeat twelve armed soldiers with his hands bound behind his back, but if he does, Nicolò is not that man. He had never even lifted a sword before taking the cross, and his survival this far isn’t exactly due to his skills with a blade.

The soldiers are now whispering about the Moorish demon - _the Terror of Agrabah_ , they call it, and say it nearly destroyed that city before being cast out. One wishes darkly that it had continued, and done the crusaders’ work for them; the others agree. Nicolò is almost envious of their ease. He has found nothing holy in the slaughter.

The demon can be found east of here, south of Agrabah itself. They say it hunts across its territory like a lion or a wolf, and its prey never escapes. They say it can burn the sky and crack the earth. Nobody is laughing at the idea now. If anything can kill him and keep him killed, Nicolò concurs, this demon might be it.

The talk turns to the logistics of riding there and back. One of the group seems to be a noble with enough authority to command the resources for a scouting party. Several men leave to requisition horses and rations under his seal, but those that remain to guard Nicolò outnumber him by at least four to his one.

Footsteps approach across the sand and Nicolò is shoved onto his back, hands trapped beneath him. Resigned, he opens his eyes to glare up at the man who broke his ribs earlier - the nobleman who has appointed himself captain of this little expedition.

Nicolò’s luck continues to turn for the worse. Achard, Vicomte of Avranches, is a sanctified sadist who has proven himself eager to spill the blood of as many innocents as possible for the sake of Christ, and as brutally as possible for his own entertainment. Nicolò cannot imagine his own treatment at Achard’s hands will be any more gentle. At least it will be short, if Achard plans to give him to this Moorish demon instead of keeping him to kill again and again for the amusement of it.

Achard lowers himself to the ground, one knee in the sand for balance, and leans over Nicolò, a kind of private enclave of two. “You will meet your end today,” Achard says, in Nicolò’s tongue so there is no mistaking him.

Nicolò answers in Achard’s Norman French for the same reason. “I hope so. Your failures to end me so far have been manifest, to say the least.”

He is expecting the blow in retaliation. Achard’s armored fist smashes into the side of his face, and white agony floods Nicolò’s vision. Jagged pieces of his jaw and cheekbone shift under his skin, grinding, pulled back into place long seconds later by some nameless and irresistible force. Nicolò holds himself motionless, fighting the urge to writhe with the pain. He will not crawl before this man.

Blood from the wound runs down the back of his throat before it heals, a rough tang of iron. A loose tooth rocks back and forth before deciding to root itself again, rather than fall out and regrow. Achard stares, watching every moment with a reviled fascination.

“You are unnatural,” he says plainly.

_On that, we agree._

“You have no place in this world.”

 _Ah, there you lose me._ It will only cause trouble, but Nicolò murmurs anyway, “Then why am I unable to leave it?”

He braces for another blow, but Achard rises to his feet instead and turns his back on Nicolò. “Somebody gag him,” he orders the remaining men. “I grow tired of his noise.”

It _did_ only cause trouble. Nicolò sighs at himself. On the other hand, he does feel somewhat absolved of the responsibility to treat them in good faith.

Two men approach, both with a kind of grim pleasure in their eyes at getting to bring the demon down. One of them carries a torn piece of cloth and a length of thin rope.

Neither of _them_ are wearing armor on their hands.

One points a knife at Nicolò as if that is any kind of threat. “Don’t move, or I will…”

What, kill him?

Nicolò holds his silence and remains still as they come close, crouching down on either side of him. One grabs Nicolò’s jaw to roughly pry his mouth open; the other pushes the cloth between his teeth.

Nicolò wrenches free and bites down with all his strength.

The man screams and blood sprays across Nicolò’s tongue. Nicolò spits the gag out as the man staggers backwards and collapses to the ground, clutching at his fingers. “Bastard whoreson _cowards_ , I’ll do worse than that if you touch me again-”

Achard groans loudly, and shoves the fallen man aside with his boot. “Do I have to do _everything_ myself?”

He draws a knife and swings it down towards Nicolò’s chest.

“Oh, _fuck_ you-”

Nicolò blinks, breathes, and stares at a different patch of sand, lined with shadows that are at entirely the wrong angles. It is hours later at best - from the gnawing, empty ache in his stomach and the clawing of thirst in his throat, perhaps days. He doesn’t remember anything since the knife went into his heart, but he can guess the soldiers simply left it there while they treated his body as they wished. If he didn’t heal enough to wake before the blade killed him again, he could have been as good as dead for any number of days.

There is sand in his mouth and in his eyes, and he can feel the last lingering pain of a fall to the ground before it fades entirely. Nicolò’s mind fills in the preceding events: his captors strapping his corpse to a horse and riding out to find the demon, determining this was an adequate spot, and throwing Nicolò to the sand like so much refuse.

War is undignified, he knows this. More and more he begins to think it is characteristic of humanity in general.

The sand is cool; it is not long past dawn. He is still bound as tightly as ever, and his shoulders and arms are stiff with it. Small discomforts, it seems, do not heal themselves unless they come with actual injury.

There is something else about this place, something Nicolò cannot put a name to. The air itself feels uneasy, like the moments before a battle or a storm. Nicolò can hear the horses shifting restlessly, stomping and snorting. One of the soldiers is praying very quietly. Even without a dozen men surrounding him and wishing him harm, Nicolò would think he was being watched.

Perhaps there _is_ a demon out here, after all.

Nicolò is suddenly very, very tired. The defiance that bit a man’s finger half-off feels long ago now, though for him it was mere minutes. If the demon takes his life, it will only give back the death Nicolò should have had at Nicaea. Perhaps that is for the best. He is not sure what his future holds if truly _nothing_ can end his existence on the earth. Not happiness, he thinks, if even his own countrymen want to kill him on sight.

“What do we do now?” one of the soldiers asks, in that jumble of common languages again.

“The stories say to rub the lamp,” says another, the one seemed to know the stories of this thing. “That will allow us to command the demon.”

“And then we ride out of here before it finds us instead.”

The demon is summoned via a _lamp?_ These stories are for children. Nicolò is quite sure this is not what the Pope had in mind when he called on the faithful to die in defense of Christendom.

Nicolò twists, getting sand in all his clothes, until he can see the lamp. It is starkly incongruous with the rest of the desert, sitting in the lee of a dune like it fell off the back of a wagon. But there is more to it as well; that uneasy aura is centered here. There is something _wrong_ about the lamp, as though Nicolò is viewing it through a summer heat haze or from the bottom of a river.

If this does not kill him, he does not think anything will.

Achard orders one of his followers to rub the lamp. Nicolò is tempted to call the man a spineless coward for being too afraid to do it himself, but finds he would rather meet his eventual death with open eyes.

The soldier picks the lamp up delicately. Nicolò is half-surprised it does not burn him or burst into flames. He tugs his sleeve up - filthy with someone’s blood, probably Nicolò’s - and scrubs his palm across the side of the lamp.

A thin tendril of red smoke emerges from the lamp. The man cries out and drops it. The smoke continues to build, seeping out in a fine but unrelenting trail.

“Command it!” Achard shouts, already mounted and ready to flee. “Command it now!”

“What do I say, lord?”

“Tell it to kill the prisoner!”

“Terror of Agrabah, kill this - creature!”

The red smoke grows, a twisting ribbon of it winding towards the horizon. Against the wind.

“Enough,” Achard declares. “We go - _now_.”

They ride in the opposite direction to where the smoke is heading. Judging by the tracks left in the sand, it is not the direction they approached from. Nicolò hopes they all get lost and starve.

The smoke is still determinedly going _somewhere_. There is not much Nicolò can do but wait for it to find its destination, and then see what happens. There is nothing sharp nearby he can attempt to cut his bonds with, and the slimmest of chances that he might escape on foot does not seem worth the effort.

And he is, perhaps, a little… curious, about whatever will be at the end of the lamp’s smoke.

He never did work out whether his immortality was a horror or a wonder. He might as well see one more such thing before it ends.

Nicolò struggles up to his knees, chin lifted, and faces his fate.

~

There is nothing Yusuf hates more than being summoned.

He hates that he is subject to the whims of worthless mortals fit only to be ground into dust beneath his heels. He hates that every time he is bound to the lamp again it takes him days to break free once more. He hates that he _was_ in the middle of tormenting a caravan of corrupt, greedy merchants, and now he is being dragged backwards across empty sands.

Most of all, perhaps, he hates that there is never _anything_ good waiting for him.

No-one rubs the lamp to leave him offerings of gold or tributes of poetry. No-one is there to offer up a spell that can break a jinn’s chains for good. No, they only have demands for him as if he is their slave - _he is, he is,_ whispers a traitorous thought, crushed quickly but not quickly enough - and even their demands are not fit for his time.

Petty miracles that they are too impatient to pray to their own gods for. Petty revenges, this death or that misfortune, all done with the barest whisper of the powers at Yusuf’s command. Petty wishes for money or power or love - that last one beyond even him, but Yusuf sees no reason to be honest about that - delivered in a heartbeat, and then he is trapped again until he can rework the spells that set him free.

At least until the next motherfucker rubs the motherfucking lamp again.

This occasion’s command takes shape the closer he comes, a compulsion forming in his mind that he will be unable to resist until he fulfills it. _Kill this creature - kill it, take its life, smother it, snuff it out-_

 _I understand_ , Yusuf wants to snarl at it. _I will kill it, we both know how this ends, so be quiet!_

It does not quiet, not ever, until he has obeyed it, and all the way across the desert it crawls within what passes for his flesh and gnaws at what used to be his bones.

Yusuf reaches the lamp and his form coalesces into something tolerably corporeal as he regards what has been left for him.

It is not impressive.

A bound and kneeling Frank regards him in return, looking like he has seen the worse end of several fights. He could be handsome, Yusuf thinks, if not covered in days’ worth of blood and sweat and half-starved besides. His clothes are as stained and beaten down as he is, and a silly Christian cross hangs from his neck, for all the good it will do him.

To Yusuf’s surprise, the Frank speaks first, one of the languages from the north side of the sea. “I wasn’t expecting the Terror of Agrabah to have such fine garments,” he says, eyeing Yusuf from turban to boots. “You look like you should be ruling cities, not destroying them.”

“Thank you,” Yusuf says, before breaking the man’s neck.

Killing him is as easy as blowing out a candle. The man falls to the sand, the light in his eyes dying with him. Yusuf contemplates the lingering feel of the Frank’s skin against his palm. Beneath the unshaved stubble and the filth that clings to all men but _especially_ those from Europa, there was quite a fine jawline.

Certainly not fine enough that Yusuf regrets the compulsion going silent and leaving him the hell alone. One more corpse for the sands to consume means less than nothing to him, but he can admit this is one of the nicer corpses he’s left in his wake.

Task complete, Yusuf turns away to regard the thrice-damned lamp. Being the world’s most powerful sorcerer, aside from the world’s most powerful jinn, does come with a few advantages. Not least is that with enough persuasion, the lamp can be convinced to contain him somewhere other than inside it. Already he is unable to move any further away from it, and soon he will not be able to resist being drawn back in completely. Even for him it is days of work to open its cage, so the sooner started, the sooner done.

He gathers power to his hands, and-

Behind him, the Frank gasps for breath and spits sand from his mouth.

 _Impossible_.

Yusuf spins. It cannot be, but the Frank is unmistakably alive, coughing desperately as his neck straightens itself and turns his head the right way around. The sight is really quite disgusting. If Yusuf still had a stomach, it would be turning.

The bones realign and the livid bruising around the Frank’s neck fades. The Frank inhales deeply, settling back into his body, and pushes himself back to his knees again.

The glare he turns on Yusuf is fierce and cold. “That was rude.”

“I have no response to that,” Yusuf says, half to himself. The compulsion is gone, he _did_ answer it, he killed the man he was bound to kill, and yet…

On impulse, he does it again, cutting the Frank’s throat with two flicks of a finger. His body slumps back down and Yusuf watches a crimson flood stain the sands, three pulses of a frantic heart before the tide goes still. The man’s life drains from him as swiftly as from any other. He is very, _very_ dead.

Then the gashes in his neck flutter at the edges and begin to seal themselves, new muscle growing under new skin impossibly fast. The pallid parchment tone of the man’s flesh returns to a healthier blush as new blood comes from _somewhere_ to fill his veins.

For all his powers, Yusuf cannot bring anyone back from the dead. Something else, it seems, can.

He grabs the Frank under the chin and holds him mostly upright. The Frank reawakens with a gasp, the light in his eyes back in full force as he meets Yusuf’s gaze. Probably on instinct, he tries to jerk away from Yusuf’s grip.

Yusuf has no intention of letting him go. “What _are_ you?”

“I don’t know,” the Frank says, a delicious current of anger running through his voice. Yusuf doesn’t think much of humans, but this one has a spine of steel. “I was hoping you would have an answer to that.”

Yusuf turns the Frank’s head from side to side, tilted up to expose his neck, unbroken skin spread over unbroken bones. That it gives him an excuse to feel this lovely jawline a little more thoroughly is an indulgence he has more than earned for his trouble. “I regret to inform you that I do not. You are quite the mystery.”

Yusuf hates being summoned, hates being confined, and hates being subjugated, and he also hates being _bored_. Whatever the Frank is, he is certainly not boring.

Yusuf was just rebuking humanity for never leaving him any worthwhile gifts. Maybe just this once, they have actually done so.

“I think I will keep you,” he tells the Frank.

He is not sure what reaction he is expecting - certainly Yusuf does not respond well to being told he belongs to anyone, even only until he performs their wish - but a dry chuckle and slight slump of the Frank’s shoulders is not it.

A half-smile tugs at one corner of his lips, making the dried blood there crack. Yusuf thinks it might be quite an attractive smile with the gore scrubbed off it. “I suppose I can live with that.”

“You do not have a choice,” Yusuf informs him plainly. That corner of his lips only lifts a fraction higher.

“That is why I am laughing.”

This is laughter? What is this man, a monk?

Yusuf is struck with the urge to teach him to laugh properly - to clutch at his belly until tears stream from his eyes and he can only stop for lack of breath. Yusuf could simply snap his fingers and make him do it now, but sometimes limitless power is just as dull as the desert itself. He could spend months toying at the puzzle - why throw that away to solve it in an instant? Far better to set himself the challenge and face it with his wits rather than his power.

If the Frank cannot die, and Yusuf means to keep him for as long as he finds him amusing - and there is not much less amusing than an empty desert - they could be companions for a long time. Yusuf can be patient when the occasion calls for it. This Frank might just bring it out in him.

The Frank shifts on his knees, lifting his chin from Yusuf’s grip. Yusuf tolerates it, eyes narrowed to see how far the Frank’s courage will take him.

“If you are not to kill me again, I would be grateful if you untied me.”

Yusuf turns the ropes binding him to ash with a thought, and then spares another to do something about his garments. If the Frank is to keep company with Yusuf, he will not be doing it in ragged, ill-fitting cloth he has now died in several times over. In its place Yusuf draws out green silks that match his eyes, the color of moonlight woven in at the edges. A few jewels, here and there - emeralds, Yusuf decides, the Frank _does_ look good in green. Another tendril of power to dissolve the blood and sweat and dust clinging to him, and…

 _Oh_ , Yusuf thinks. He was right. Beneath all that filth there is something worthwhile to look at, indeed. Yes, Yusuf would _much_ rather stare at him than at the desert.

The Frank groans as he brings his freed wrists in front of them, and rubs at the marks left by the ropes. They fade as quickly as the fatal injuries Yusuf inflicted on him, and then the Frank rolls his shoulders to work out the ache there. Satisfied after a few moments, he rises back to his feet, almost exactly eye-to-eye with Yusuf’s form.

After another moment the Frank notices his new accoutrements, trailing careful touch over the elegant rings on his fingers and the fine embroidery on his tunic.

Yusuf smiles. “That’s better, isn’t it.”

The Frank looks up. “Thank you,” he says, and punches Yusuf in the face.

Yusuf lets everything above his shoulders turn to smoke, and the Frank’s fist passes through him with nary a whisper. Yusuf steps neatly to the side and lets the Frank overbalance and fall to the ground.

“I do hope that was out of curiosity,” Yusuf says, reserving judgment as to whether he is angry or not. He does not want a mouse, so the Frank’s bravery is commendable; but he does not want someone too stupid to recognize the futility of this pursuit, either. “If you truly mean me harm, we shall have a problem. And by _we_ , I of course mean _you_.”

The Frank picks himself back up and stares as Yusuf’s head solidifies again. “What are _you?_ ” he asks. “We are condemned as demons both, yet you are capable of feats far beyond me or any man.”

“I am not a man,” Yusuf agrees softly. “Remember that if you do not want to give me cause to prove it.”

Uncowed by this warning, the Frank shrugs. “And what will you do then, kill me?”

“I could leave you buried under the sands,” Yusuf says. “Then you can wish I had only killed you.”

A little of the fight seems to go out of the Frank at that. Not gone, Yusuf is learning; merely banked like fire to last the night until he needs it again. “If you are not a man, will you answer my question as to what you _are?_ ”

“That is a long conversation.”

The Frank shrugs again. “It appears I am not going anywhere.”

True; that is the last thing Yusuf will allow. It has been centuries since he last had a long conversation with anyone, and never with someone so burning-bright. The lamp’s pull feels quiescent for now; he has time for a little indulgence.

Yusuf draws a pavilion from the sands, tent top casting shade while the sides are rolled up to let in the still-cool morning breeze. A flick of his fingers sees the Frank seated on a divan, and another flick brings laden plates of figs, olives and dates to rest on a table before him. Yusuf completes the tableau with a glass of chilled tea to ward off the coming heat of the day.

“All to your liking, I trust?” Yusuf says, feeling grandiose in his generosity, and sprawls out across a second divan on the table’s other side. “I don’t know what the crusader princes have been feeding you, but I’m not impressed.”

The Frank’s lips thin, and he plucks a single fig from the pile. “Starvation does as little to me as anything else. I tried to leave the rations for the others.”

“Some thanks you got for it,” Yusuf observes. “The one who summoned me spoke in your tongue. Your companions sacrificed you to me, no? Doubtless because of that very immortality that let you share your rations?”

The Frank looks away, toying with the fig but making no move to eat it. “They were… frightened. They found me a horror. And not without reason.”

Yusuf rolls his eyes. “They condemn you to be slaughtered at my hand, and all you can say of them is that they had reason? You positively overflow with kindness. I wouldn’t waste it on such unworthy objects if I were you.” He laughs. “Well, if _I_ were you I would have obliterated them before they could so much as lay a finger on me.”

“I did bite off a finger laid on me.”

Yusuf likes him better and better with each passing moment. “That’s a start. Now eat, or I’ll take offense.”

The Frank closes his eyes for a moment, lips moving soundlessly, before he complies. Yusuf recognizes a blessing when he sees one, even a Christian one, and it amuses him. The Frank still has such faith in a god that clearly wants nothing to do with him. Well, he’ll come around to Yusuf’s way of thinking eventually, when he tires of hearing no answers to his prayers.

Under the amusement there is a kind of jealousy clawing inside of Yusuf, a possessive snarl of _mine, mine, mine_. The Frank does not need a higher power on his side when he has Yusuf ready to fill his every need. What can any god give him that Yusuf cannot? _He will learn_ , Yusuf soothes that snarl. _We have time to make him ours._ He wants to take his time, after all; that is the entire point of the Frank.

The Frank brings an olive to his lips next. Yusuf is momentarily arrested by that hand - strong and broad, but holding the olive with a perfectly balanced lightness.

He really is rather lovely. Yusuf cannot just keep calling him _the Frank_.

“I suppose I should have your name,” Yusuf says, careful to sound as though he doesn’t really care. “If you’re going to remain in my orbit for long.”

“Nicolò.”

He gives it so easily, pouring it out into unsupported air without fear. All the harm the world has done him - Yusuf alone has killed him twice - and _Nicolò_ simply hands over his name like it means nothing to him. _Curious._

“May I know your name in return?”

Yusuf laughs at the absurdity of it. “You are not worthy of pronouncing my name!”

Nicolò, unmoved as the sea, raises a steady eyebrow. “You promised to tell me what you are. May I know that?”

Curious, and infuriating. Nicolò is not afraid of Yusuf, and seems to have an inconvenient inability to remember who is the master here. They are not companions, or equals, or anything of that sort. Yusuf is not Shahryar, to fall in love with Scheherazade; he _will_ toss Nicolò aside as soon as he is tired of him. Another thing Yusuf will teach Nicolò with time.

It can only aid Yusuf in this endeavor to show Nicolò who, and what, he is dealing with. “Very well.”

He wraps the pavilion in shadows, banishing the sunlight, and ignites a fire just past their feet. A better atmosphere to attend this tale.

He has never told it to anyone else before, but how hard can it be? He was there.

“I am the most powerful jinn in the world,” he says. “If you had three hundred years - which, I suspect, you might - you could not comprehend all that I am capable of. A jinn’s powers are near without limit. I could turn the moon from its path, or make the sun rise in the west. I could wipe your homeland from the face of the earth, or make every other nation bow before its empire. This is an ancient form of magic that rose from these sands and never left.”

Nicolò is silent, listening intently with his head slightly cocked. Pleased, Yusuf goes on.

“Like all magic, it has rules about how it can be used. And it is usually the case that the more powerful the magic, the more restrictive the rules. Jinn magic requires certain conditions before it can be used at all.”

Yusuf jerks his head at the lamp, still lying in the sand behind his shoulder. “All jinn are bound to their lamp. They cannot even leave it without a command from an outside voice. Rub the lamp, and the jinn magic is released, but only at the direction of the one holding the lamp.”

Nicolò nods. “I saw - the men who brought me here, that is what they did.”

“Then they were smarter than the ones who don’t know to rub the lamp _first_ ,” Yusuf says. Nicolò’s lips curl upwards and his eyes dance in the firelight.

It is a good look on him. Yusuf will ensure he sees it again.

“Now I, I am pleased to say, am not like other jinn. I was a sorcerer before I became what I am now, and that is another branch of magic entirely. Separate enough that it can bend a few of the rules that bind a jinn.”

“How?”

“It’s fairly dishonorable. Trickery, creativity, rules-lawyering. Convince the lamp that _my_ wishes matter, and I gain freer access to my jinn’s powers. Convince the lamp its shape is outside itself, not within itself, and my prison walls stretch to the horizon instead of being, well.” Yusuf flicks a finger behind himself at the lamp. “That.”

Nicolò’s eyes slide to the lamp and he swallows. “In the normal course of things, you would be… _inside_ the lamp, until someone commanded you leave it?”

“Indeed.”

“Now _that_ is a horror.”

Yusuf bares his teeth. “Indeed.”

“Who did this to you?”

Yusuf sighs. Ancient history now, but no less painful. “An enemy jinn’s powers were the cause, but as I was commanding it at the time, you could fairly say I did it to myself.”

“You _asked_ for this?”

“I ordered it,” Yusuf corrects. “The jinn could not refuse, even if it wanted to. Which it didn’t. It didn’t like me very much.”

There is something appalled in Nicolò’s gaze. “Why would you do that?”

“Would you believe me if I said I had forgotten about the lamp?”

He is hoping to make Nicolò at least smile, but he gets a somber frown instead. “That is terrible.”

Yusuf spreads his hands, as if to let Nicolò’s concern fall through his fingers. “I have undone as much of it as I can. A few threads have to be unwound over and over again, but now I have the way of it, it is not so bad. My combined powers are still so great I need fear nothing and no-one.”

“Did you need to, before?”

Yusuf’s gaze sharpens. That is _not_ the tale he wants to tell, not history he wants to even _think_ on. “Ask something else.”

Nicolò’s eyes narrow. Yusuf’s heart would skip a beat, if he still had one. Of course his curious, entertaining, impossible Frank is quick enough to notice what Yusuf does not want to speak of, and remember it for another time.

Yusuf could always kill him again, and hope that when he wakes he will have forgotten about it…

Nicolò moves on before Yusuf needs to resort to desperate measures. “Why are you called the Terror of Agrabah?”

Now this, Yusuf likes. “Agrabah in my day was a bloated, self-important carcass of a city that scraped the sky, with no concept of the muck its foundations stood in. So long as the surface shone, it let itself be blinded to the rot beneath. I attempted to scrape some of the shine off.”

“And that is terrifying because…?”

“I attempted - and briefly succeeded - to drag its rulers beneath my feet, so they could see how they liked it down there. Why not throw down the rest of the elevated citizens as well? I came within an inch of usurping the Sultan’s throne, and when I saw I could not hold it, decided I would rather destroy it behind me than let them take it back.”

“The crusade laid siege to Agrabah,” Nicolò says. “I can tell you that someone took it, even if it was only rubble.”

“They had a jinn of their own,” Yusuf reminds him. “I am sure that whatever I did was undone again in an instant. No matter. There are other ways to leave my mark on the world.”

“Is that what you want? For the whole world to know who you are and what you’ve done?” The corner of Nicolò’s mouth quirks. “Even if we aren’t allowed to pronounce your name?”

“That is not funny.”

“My apologies. I will try harder next time.”

There is just no rebuking this man. Yusuf moves on rather than fail a second attempt. “I want the kind of freedom that means I don’t have to live with anyone’s boot on my neck. All my mortal life I sought the power to attain that freedom, but the higher I rose, the more people wanted to drag me down. And now…” Yusuf laughs bitterly, and throws a hand out at the lamp. “Now I _fear_ no-one, but at the cost that I have to obey any fool who so much as touches that thing.”

The motion has pulled his sleeve up, and exposed the shackle around that wrist. He has been able to shape the surface of it, so it looks like a heavy bracelet of the finest worked gold rather than a choke-chain, but its weight is not lessened. “Look,” he says, and taps the metal with his nails to make it ring. “So long as that lamp binds me, I can think of only one thing worse.”

Nicolò’s gaze is steady. “And what is that?”

“To be _without_ ,” Yusuf snarls. “To be just a man, forced to serve through other means - I am sure you know them well - without the attendant power to destroy my enemies afterwards. Do you know _why_ my prison walls only reach the horizon? If I am able to escape the lamp at all, why not go further?”

He yanks his sleeve back down, unable to look at the shackle any longer. “The further away I get from it, the more my powers drain. I cannot _bear_ to be without them, to be _nothing_ , to have to crawl and beg because I cannot simply _take_ what I want. I might as well be leashed to that thing.”

“Then why not bring the lamp with you, and your powers with it?”

Yusuf laughs. It’s a cruel sound and he knows it, hopes his derision hurts. “Bring it with me? Oh, _thank_ you for enlightening me, for in four centuries of breaking its curse and applying every magic I know, I’ve never thought to try just _picking it up!_ ”

Nicolò’s gaze cuts to the side as Yusuf’s ire makes the fire flare higher. Now, at last, he looks like he is starting to understand what he is playing with.

Yusuf sneers. “Ask another question that stupid and I will throw you right back to the crusaders, and let them kill you until it sticks.”

“It _was_ a stupid question.” Nicolò bows his head, shoulders lowered. “Forgive me.”

Something cold churns inside of Yusuf, ice water poured over his rage. He does not like the sight of Nicolò humbled and penitent nearly as much as he thought he would. _Mine, mine, mine_ , whispers that jealous snarl, rising to a scream, _my Frank does not face the world from his knees, he yields to no compulsion, he should be glorious and shameless and stand at my shoulder arrayed in pride-_

“Nicolò,” Yusuf whispers, and then he is there before him, close enough to feel his breath. Yusuf reaches out a hand to lift Nicolò’s chin, and he is suddenly aware of two things: how very similar and yet very different the gesture is to how Yusuf held him before, and how much he likes the feel of Nicolò’s name in his mouth.

“Look at me,” he pleads, when Nicolò will not meet his eyes. Nicolò obeys, and Yusuf flinches at his own foolishness for wording it as a command. “No, I - I am doing this all wrong. But I do not want you like this, Nicolò.”

“I think you do not know what you want.”

“Probably,” Yusuf says. “I haven’t spoken civilly with anyone in a few hundred years, I don’t remember how to - I have not been a good host to you, have I?”

Nicolò turns over his confession for a few moments that span an eternity. “You have only killed me twice,” he says at last. “You could be worse.” Is that humor in his voice, or merely Yusuf’s desperate imagination?

He shakes his head regardless. “I would rather I killed you than see you cower before me again. Is that terrible? I would rather you stand your ground and anger me as much as you please, than that you ever bow to me.”

“You are a very strange demon.”

Yusuf wants to laugh at the inanity of it, but Nicolò beats him to it. “That was a stupid statement, not a question. I presume you will allow it.”

It _was_ humor. Some important axis inside of Yusuf rights itself. “This time,” he says magnanimously. “Next time, well, we will have to see.”

Nicolò glances down at where Yusuf’s hand is still under his chin, thumb hooked on the jut of his jawbone just below his lip. “Will you unhand me? I cannot gather the wits for more intelligent questions while you hold me like this.”

 _Whyever not_ , Yusuf wonders, but releases him anyway and retreats to his own side of the table.

Nicolò sighs, and rubs at his chin where Yusuf’s hand rested. “Where _would_ you go, if the lamp permitted?”

They are to go back to their conversation, then, before Yusuf’s outburst ruined everything. Yusuf finds himself grateful. It is an odd, unfamiliar feeling that does not sit well in him.

He turns over Nicolò’s question instead of thinking on how he received it. When he was Grand Vizier of Agrabah, he traveled far in pursuit of its diplomatic interests - and, more importantly, his own. He saw the great cities of Tunis to the west and Baghdad to the east, the Egyptian pyramids, the Haiga Sophia.

All of them have the fatal flaw of being completely surrounded by desert.

Perhaps an island, surrounded by the sea instead. His ship docked in Malta, once, on the way to the grander island of Siqilliya, and he thinks he remembers lying beneath a cool leafy canopy, watching the sun set into the bay, and feeling content despite everything…

“It doesn’t matter,” Yusuf says, unable to admit to the yearning that has opened up inside him. “While that lamp binds me, I might as well be on a leash.”

“And why is it you cannot bring the lamp with you?”

“I cannot touch the lamp. Nor can I wrap it in a cloth and touch the cloth, nor summon a wind to blow it along my path, nor tie it to a string and tow it behind me like a goat.”

There is that wonderful upward quirk of Nicolò’s lips again. “You haven’t known many goats, have you? I assure you, they do not follow behind either.”

It startles a bark of delighted laughter from Yusuf. Once started, more and more rolls out of him until his mirth is all he thinks about. He barely even notices that he lets the shadows slip and the fire go out, sunlight flooding into the pavilion once more.

He cannot remember the last time he laughed so deeply.

After another moment he is composed enough to sit upright again, but when he goes to speak to Nicolò, he is gone.

Frowning, Yusuf turns until he finds him, standing at Yusuf’s back and staring down at the lamp with an expression Yusuf does not think he likes.

“What?”

“I could carry it.”

“ _What._ ”

“I could carry it,” Nicolò repeats, and looks up. “You cannot touch this thing, nor move it in any way, but I could. Then you would not be bound to this desert and the whims of passersby, and-”

Yusuf’s entire being churns. “I would be bound to _you_.”

Nicolò’s gaze hardens. “Am I not bound to you? Can you not bury me beneath the sand or throw me back to the crusaders? You can kill me before I can so much as lift a finger in my defense, and any defense I can mount is useless against you. None of that would change simply because I held the lamp, would it?”

“Yes, it would, you ignorant Frankish barbarian! If you _touch_ the lamp you will own me so utterly I won’t be able to even _insult_ you, never mind kill you! And if you _rubbed it,_ you could command _-_ ”

“What do you think I would command of you that you have not given me freely?” Nicolò gestures expansively at the pavilion and its furnishings. “You say you are not a good host, but you are more than capable of it. I am merely offering to return the favor.”

“You are offering to enslave me,” Yusuf grates out. “That is not the same thing.”

“The lamp enslaves you,” Nicolò says reasonably. It is infuriating. “I cannot free you from it, but I can carry you out of this desert - is that not of value to you?”

 _Out of the desert._ Yusuf’s mind seems to stop entirely on that thought. Yusuf has seen nothing but desert since being thrown from Agrabah. Nicolò’s earlier question suddenly matters a good deal more. He could see something else, _anything_ else…

But at what cost?

It is almost a relief to remember himself. Nicolò is not _supposed_ to be of value to him, not like _this_. Nicolò is meant to be amusing, to make the years pass slightly quicker - a curiosity Yusuf cannot resolve with his powers alone, another voice to fill the silence. Nicolò is not supposed to have power over Yusuf, to rescue him from his own folly, to relieve Yusuf’s torment on terms other than those Yusuf decided.

He is not supposed to _mean_ something to Yusuf. The thought of following Nicolò out of the desert is not supposed to entice him. Why is Yusuf even _considering_ letting Nicolò take the lamp? After everything he has done to be free of other men’s control, he cannot give in like this!

Nicolò is staring at him as if he knows everything Yusuf is thinking. And he probably does, because Yusuf hasn’t needed to keep his thoughts off his face in a few centuries. That wasn’t supposed to happen either.

Boredom was better than this - certainly safer. Yusuf is already tied to one thing; he must get off this path before he ties himself to another.

 _His_ Frank. Yusuf should have gotten rid of him as soon as he started thinking of him as such. He needs to get rid of him _now_.

He shrugs one shoulder and turns his back on Nicolò. “You have nothing of value to me,” he says dismissively. “Carry yourself out of the desert if you like. But I will not be tagging along at your heels like a lovesick fool.”

“I thought you meant to keep me,” Nicolò says. “Are you releasing me so quickly?”

“Yes. You are not as entertaining as I thought.”

“Is that so? Well, if that is what you want.”

Nicolò’s boots crunch softly in the sand as he starts walking away.

Yusuf spins around to watch him, incredulous. “Where are you going?”

“As long as it is somewhere the crusade hasn’t sacked, I do not much care.”

“You’ll die before you reach the edge of the desert!”

“And then I will wake and keep walking.”

Yusuf splinters. “Don’t go,” he whispers. Nicolò does not look back, and then he has disappeared over the crest of a dune.


	2. The Burning Moon

The desert is empty again, and the desolation of it is overwhelming.

Yusuf stares at the sands, and feels that if they rose up and swallowed him it would be a lesser torment than Nicolò’s absence. _Mine, mine, mine!_ It is not a singular snarl anymore, but a cacophony across the whole of Yusuf’s being. He does not want Nicolò to leave - magic is swirling, uncalled-for, in the air around him, aching to bring Nicolò back.

 _No._ Yusuf pushes the urge down and drowns it ruthlessly. He gave Nicolò permission to go; he did not betray or wrong Yusuf by doing so. It was Yusuf who objected so violently to the prospect of being Nicolò’s slave that he drove Nicolò off in the first place. If Nicolò wants to leave it should not be Yusuf who stops him.

Perhaps Yusuf hoped Nicolò would stop himself, and choose to stay, but - Yusuf is not much of a companion, he must admit. For all Nicolò seems to have forgiven those small, easy deaths at the beginning of their acquaintance, the quarter-hour or so that followed it was nothing to impress either. Yusuf did little other than shout at him, threaten him, humiliate him - small wonder Nicolò left.

But he stayed for long enough to smile. He ate what Yusuf offered and listened when Yusuf spoke, and offered to take Yusuf along with him, to travel together. Even if he would have held Yusuf’s chains while they did so, surely Nicolò would not have carried the lamp for that sake alone. No, for if he _did_ mean to keep Yusuf in his control, he would have simply taken the lamp with him regardless of Yusuf’s thoughts on the matter. Yusuf could not have stopped him. Nicolò does not hate him, Yusuf thinks, at least not more than Yusuf deserves and not without softer thoughts alongside it.

Nicolò would have brought Yusuf out of the desert. Yusuf lied - _oh_ , how bitterly he lied - when he said that was not of value. When was the last time he saw the sea? A stand of trees? Rain? Anything other than sand, everywhere.

He didn’t get to see Nicolò laugh.

 _No!_ He shoves that thought down with the rest. This is not what Yusuf is. Better bored and alone and _free_ than in thrall to a mere man who Yusuf wouldn’t have looked twice at if not for his strange regeneration.

 _But you did look_ , hisses that possessive snarl. _You looked and you liked what you saw. Mine, mine, mine! Too late to pretend you don’t want him!_

 _No_. Yusuf is a jinn and a sorcerer and the Terror of Agrabah and he will not give in to this, he is _better_ than this, his powers are above such petty concerns as companionship and, and…

And yet those fifteen glowing, glorious minutes passed more swiftly than any second in the last four centuries. With Nicolò before him Yusuf forgot to be above anything. He spoke and laughed and told tales and shared a meal - more or less - and he was almost human again.

He did not hate it as much as he thought he would.

Would it be so bad, to have that? To swallow his pride for once in his life and let himself forget what he is for a little longer? He has been high and mighty and free from anything but the lamp for all these years, and what has it gotten him? What _could_ it get him in the future that is better than Nicolò?

Does Yusuf really want a millennium of that ahead of him, when he knows what he could have instead? He suddenly suspects he will spend much of that millennium painfully aware of Nicolò’s loss and regretting it bitterly.

Well, it would have done him good to think of that before pushing Nicolò aside. Yusuf looks at Nicolò’s footprints, washing away in the wind, and takes a moment to despite himself utterly. All his greatest misfortunes are brought down by his own hand, it seems; first the lamp, and now this. Why was it so hard to admit to himself what he wanted? He should have let Nicolò take the lamp and followed him without a second thought.

_I could follow him now._

The thought sinks into his core like a stone dropped in a pool. He cannot bring Nicolò back by force, refuses to use his powers against him, but nothing is stopping Yusuf from going after him instead.

Nothing except the lamp, his tie to it still fresh and strong and preventing him from taking so much as a step away from it.

Yusuf rises to his feet and hovers over the lamp, regarding it closely. He has done this many times before, and he knows well that it is the work of days of spells and weaving and negotiation to convince the lamp to release its hold on him. Even though Yusuf is practiced in the steps that must be taken, it is still a delicate process easy to ruin if approached heavy-handedly. Shortcuts in magic are always unwise.

Yusuf slams an entire storm into the lamp at once.

The force of it is so great that it blocks out the sun and turns the sand beneath his feet to glass. It obliterates the pavilion Yusuf created so thoroughly that not a trace of it remains. It also knocks him backwards through the air to sprawl on his ass halfway up the nearest dune. It is probably the least dignified he has been in four hundred years. 

But he _has_ moved further away from the lamp without hindrance.

Yusuf picks himself up and flies after his Nicolò.

~

The jinn is a very strange demon.

Of everything that has happened to Nicolò today, that is the closest he can come to understanding it. The jinn is capricious, impulsive, and mercurial, flowing from anger to contrition to amusement to anger again with dizzying speed. It was compelling to watch, as unlike the relentless, agonizing monotony of a crusader march as Nicolò can imagine.

The figs weren’t bad, either.

Nicolò would be capricious and mercurial too, after centuries of imprisonment and exile. Four hundred years alone in a desert would make anyone insane; perhaps it is a wonder that the jinn’s mind is as intact as it is. It is easy to forgive the jinn taking out his frustrations on Nicolò when he cannot do any real harm to Nicolò’s body, and all his attempts to harm Nicolò with his words only seemed to harm himself the more.

The jinn is very frightened, Nicolò thinks, and indeed does not know what he wants. Or rather, he cannot have everything he wants at the one time. He wants the powers of a jinn’s lamp, but also freedom from other men’s wills. He wants safety from the hurts of the world, but lowered his guard to let Nicolò’s words hurt him in return. He wants Nicolò, but does not want to want him.

Nicolò rubs at his jaw where the jinn held him so tenderly. He wanted the jinn, too, and _he_ feels no hesitation about that. It was almost a pleasure to die at the hands of something so beautiful. The jinn did not have to kill him swiftly and painlessly; he is more humane than many men on the crusade. Achard, Vicomte of Avranches, for one. And the further they got from those deaths, the more Nicolò liked the jinn. Even his anger was refreshingly honest, and mostly justified. There was so much more to him than anger, besides: tantalizing glimpses of thoughtfulness, quick wits, and humor that only made Nicolò want to know more of him.

How long were they in each other’s company? A quarter-hour, maybe a little longer? It was perhaps Nicolò’s favorite quarter-hour of the whole crusade.

It is an odd feeling, desiring a demon, and yet Nicolò sees no reason why he should not. He is cut off from the usual scales of right and justice, left to find his own way. Why should that way not include the tender touch of a jinn and his clumsy yet earnest hospitality?

Nicolò’s empty belly cramps at the memory. He should have eaten more while he had the chance, and at least tasted the tea. Still, he is too stubborn to go back. The jinn sent him away, whether he actually desired that Nicolò leave or no, and Nicolò refuses to let that pass. If the jinn wanted him, he should have admitted it freely. Nicolò could sit and listen to many things from the jinn’s lips - being declared _unworthy_ to pronounce the jinn’s name had almost made him smile - but he will not ignore the word ‘no’.

Nicolò can protect him from others who would use the lamp. The fight within himself is one the jinn will have to wage on his own.

If he ever thinks of Nicolò again, that is.

Nicolò’s feet slip in the dunes. The boots the jinn created out of nothing for him are incredibly comfortable, but nothing can take windblown sand and pack it into a solid road.

Nothing, save that Nicolò’s next step lands on hard and smooth stone, and then the jinn is in front of him in a swirling veil of red smoke.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of the jinn’s mouth. “I’m sorry, don’t leave, I never want to see you leave again-”

Nicolò gapes, struck silent. If the jinn _has_ fought himself, he has done it far more quickly than Nicolò thought possible.

“Please,” the jinn continues, words spilling out like water from a fountain. “I take it all back, you did not deserve anything I said - go anywhere you will, only let me follow and I will do whatever you ask, name it and you shall have it-”

Curious inability to die aside, Nicolò is only a man, and no man can be immune to a very powerful and very handsome creature abandoning their pride to crawl after him promising dedication. Still, Nicolò is not required to forgive him _just_ yet. “So, you’ve decided you’re not a goat after all.”

A fascinating play of expressions rushes across the jinn’s face, like dancers at a masque. Outrage, then embarrassment, then a laugh, then coalescing into a lovely kind of resolve.

“I would follow you anywhere,” the jinn murmurs, so low Nicolò thinks it took magic to bring it to his ears. “I would cross the ocean without a boat or climb a mountain barefoot if that is where you led. I have been… alone, for a very long time, and I do not wish it to continue, if - if you will have me. Take the lamp, do what you please with it, I do not care, but I beg you-”

He moves as if he is going to throw himself to his knees at Nicolò’s feet. Nicolò stops him with a raised hand, fingertips pressed to the jinn’s lips. For all he is not a man, he feels like one; flesh warm and soft, his beard a fine rasp against Nicolò’s skin.

“You do not bow to me,” Nicolò says, returning the jinn’s words to him. “You have been forced to give enough to others. There is much in you that the world has wounded, but you will _never_ have anything to fear from me.”

The jinn’s eyes are wide and lost. Nicolò thinks he did not expect to receive a favorable answer.

He goes on. “Whatever I am, I cannot go back to the people I came from. Today’s events have made that clear. I may have a very long life ahead of me, and I do not wish to spend it alone either. I would be grateful to share it with you.”

The jinn takes Nicolò’s raised hand with a look of wonder, and lays it gently against his cheek. Nicolò holds him without hesitation. The jinn turns into his touch like a stray, feral cat, frightened of all and with good reason, but brave enough to risk everything one more time.

“I do not remember this,” the jinn whispers at length. “How to be kind to someone. I am not sure I ever knew.”

“Someone recently told me that I overflow with kindness,” Nicolò says. He finds himself smiling. “I will teach you if you are a willing student.”

“For you, I will try,” the jinn vows, before his eyes crinkle and his mouth slants. “I cannot promise I will do it well. I think I will need many lessons.”

It startles a laugh out of Nicolò. The jinn’s face goes soft with adoration, and oh, Nicolò wants to fall into his arms at that look. He cannot name what is drawing them together, what has convinced him that he would rather be at this demon’s side than anywhere else in the world, but he willingly gives into it. And the greater gift - it is clear that the jinn feels it as well.

Nicolò strokes his thumb over the jinn’s cheekbone. His palm is bathed in warmth and the softness of the jinn’s beard is a caress in itself. Nicolò would like to feel that caress in many other places.

“Yusuf,” the jinn says from nowhere. Nicolò raises an eyebrow in a question. “My name is Yusuf.”

“I like it,” Nicolò says. It is true; he tests it in his mind and finds the syllables soft, but strong, something that could be whispered or shouted with equal power. “Do you want me to say it back to you? Am I worthy of pronouncing it now?”

The jinn - _Yusuf_ , Nicolò likes it more and more - twists a smile and ducks his head. “You always were, but I was too puffed-up to see it. It’s yours to do with as you will.”

“Very well,” Nicolò says, and takes a careful step forward over the hard, not-sand beneath their feet. “This is what my mouth wants to do with your name in it.”

With that hand still on Yusuf’s cheek, Nicolò tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, and brings their lips together.

The kiss is gentle and chaste, Yusuf going stiff before melting into Nicolò’s hand and mouth and letting him lead the way. Another thing Yusuf has forgotten, Nicolò thinks, or never had a use for in his quest for power. Nicolò assays a careful, barely-there brush of his tongue against Yusuf’s lips, and Yusuf jolts in surprise, mouth falling open.

Nicolò pulls back and halts there. He strokes Yusuf’s cheekbone again. “Did you like that? It’s alright if you did not. Not everyone does. I will not do it again if you did not like it.”

“If you don’t do it again, I will be very unhappy,” Yusuf says.

A jinn, it seems, cannot flush with pleasure or dilate their pupils with hunger, but Nicolò sees enough in Yusuf’s expression all the same.

Nicolò smiles. “Shall I do it now?”

Yusuf nods eagerly. The thought crosses Nicolò’s mind to tease him and make him _ask_ for it, and just as quickly it leaves again. There will be plenty of time to tease when they know each other better. For now, Nicolò ought to reward Yusuf’s trust in him.

Nicolò brings up his free hand to the other side of Yusuf’s face, nicely balanced. “You may touch me too, if you like.”

Yusuf’s eyes widen like he had not realized this was a possibility. Hesitantly, he closes both hands around Nicolò’s wrists and holds him steady so that Nicolò cannot simply fall away. Yusuf’s fingertips start to play on the insides of Nicolò’s wrists, finding out his pulse points and tracing the tendons.

Yusuf has lovely hands, Nicolò thinks. He would like to feel those in many other places, too.

Nicolò pulls them back together. Yusuf’s fingers tighten with excitement, and Nicolò’s eyes close in anticipation.

His lips meet nothing but air and Yusuf’s hold on his wrists disappears.

Something is not right.

Nicolò snaps his eyes open again to find Yusuf at the center of a violent storm of red smoke, twisting and fighting something Nicolò cannot see. He reaches out and grabs at the end of Yusuf’s sleeve, fabric real and heavy before it falls apart in his hands and is drawn back into the whirlwind.

Here again is that sense of _wrongness_ that was centered on the lamp when Nicolò first saw it, the whole world turned strange as if seen through poor glass. The edges of the smoke seem to crack before swirling back on themselves, ripping Yusuf apart with them.

Yusuf’s eyes meet Nicolò’s and somehow he holds his gaze, clearly in terrible pain.

“The lamp,” Yusuf grits out, before his form tears itself into ribbons again. With what seems to be immense effort, he draws himself back into a coherent shape. “Someone has the lamp, I cannot-”

With a scream of agony, even the shape of him dissolves entirely and the smoke vanishes, shooting in an arrow over Nicolò’s shoulder.

Nicolò spins to keep it in sight. The smoke streaks across the dunes, faster than a horse can gallop. Everywhere it passes the sand is flung away in a deep channel beneath it, the landscape almost carved in two in the wake of Yusuf’s helpless rage.

Nicolò is abruptly furious. He is not angry often, but in this moment he would kill with his bare hands whoever has dared to pick up Yusuf’s lamp. The sight of Yusuf fighting to stay with him, and _losing_ \- Nicolò never wants to see that again. He pitied Yusuf’s subjugation to the lamp before, of course, but now that he has seen it for himself it feels different. Now he understands why Yusuf was so repelled at the mere idea of Nicolò possessing the lamp.

On crusade, Nicolò could have chosen to disobey the commanders at any time. There would have been consequences, of course, likely swift and terrible, but he could have done it. Yusuf does not even have that option.

Whatever Yusuf did to Agrabah and has done to others in the years since, he does not deserve this. Of that, Nicolò is sure.

Well, Yusuf might be bound to obey and serve whoever holds the lamp, but Nicolò is bound to nothing. He has enough will for them both. And Yusuf’s trail is easy to follow.

He smiles grimly as he starts walking along the chasm Yusuf left behind.

~

Yusuf has discovered something he hates more than being summoned.

Being summoned _while Nicolò is an inch away from kissing him._

The compulsion is stronger, this time, with the previous command so recent and Yusuf freeing himself from the lamp so clumsily. There are no orders, this time, only the searing pulse of a hand on the lamp, endless circles drawing him in. He will be trapped inside the lamp this time, he knows it, and that is _another_ thing that he hates.

But it will not matter. Yusuf will obey whatever imbecilic command is finally given to him, will free himself from the lamp again however long it takes, find Nicolò, and let him take the lamp without further delays. Nicolò was right all along - something Yusuf suspects will often be the case - and if the lamp must be in _someone’s_ hands, better those hands be Nicolò’s.

Yusuf doesn’t have a body right now - ever, really, but even less than usual at the moment. Still, he remembers Nicolò’s touch with perfect clarity, the warmth of his skin, the gentleness of his fingertips. Did anyone ever touch Yusuf like that before Nicolò, in his mortal life or this one?

He is returned to the lamp like a tornado touching down from the sky. Because is he royally pissed off, he flings himself at it all the harder and hits like a meteor falling from the stars.

The satisfaction of knocking the lamp clean out of his new master’s hands slightly softens his airless, cramped confinement inside it.

He does not need to breathe, but he does have a mind that remembers when he did, and constantly reminds him that he cannot. He does not even have lungs, but that does not stop part of him from trying desperately to fill them. Yusuf _hates_ it here, hates and fears every time that this will be the one he does not escape, that the lamp will finally have learned to contain him like it is supposed to, that this new master will simply forbid him to leave and Yusuf will _have_ to obey.

 _Not this time_ , he vows. This time he is getting out and going back to Nicolò.

He’s never had something to look forward to before. It does not make the fear lesser, but it is easier to bear.

A hand touches the lamp and calls Yusuf out.

He boils up like something noxious out of a volcano, on purpose, and lets his form coalesce rather larger than usual.

It does not help.

The man holding the lamp regards Yusuf with a cruel sneer that says he knows exactly how impotent Yusuf truly is. The other men attending him do not look as fearful as they should, either. It is the same band of crusaders who dragged Nicolò here to die; Yusuf cannot fail to recognize a former master, even one of so short a duration. They must have finally worked out that using a jinn’s powers to commit a single murder is a dreadful waste. Before meeting Nicolò, Yusuf would have been pleased to see his value appreciated; now he does not like anything about this.

They were willing to use Yusuf to kill Nicolò once. What will they do if they learn that Yusuf failed?

He sneers at the crusader in return. “I was in the middle of something important. I don’t know what you think is worth interrupting me, but-”

“Quiet,” the crusader says.

Yusuf arches an eyebrow. “Is that your wish? I will only obey you so many times, but if that is what you want I will-”

The crusader sighs between gritted teeth. “No.”

Damn. Yusuf should not have bothered asking, just done it and struck one wish off the list. He is really not at his best. He’s never tried to outthink anyone like this before - usually people are so afraid of him he doesn’t need to _try_.

“I thought not,” he tells the crusader, instead of mulling on his regret. “So why am I here?”

“The Saracens say you can do anything. Is it true?”

“You know, they really don’t like that word.”

“Answer the question.”

Yusuf sighs pointedly. “No, it is not true.”

“Are you lying?”

“If I were, why would I give you an honest answer this time? I am not lying, as it happens. But perhaps it would be more amusing if I did.”

The crusader straightens, chin lifting imperiously. “You will address me with more respect.”

This time, Yusuf is ready. He bows low, spreading both hands to the sides. “As you wish, master.” The words are ash in his throat, but the hint of compulsion he drew out of the crusader’s speech lifts itself again.

One down.

“No, I did not - son of a dog,” the crusader spits. “You will - you will give my wish back!”

“Alas,” Yusuf says. He does not smile, but he is thinking about it. “That is one of the things beyond my power.”

The crusader’s face darkens, and his soldiers shift nervously, looking to each other for reassurance. It seems this is not a man accustomed to being told _no_. But unless he chooses to spend one of his wishes on ordering Yusuf to torture himself, there is not much Yusuf has to fear from him. Waiting out his remaining wishes will be irritating, but ultimately the crusader and his cohort will ride away again and leave Yusuf alone.

A final round of humiliation, and then Nicolò will possess the lamp. That, Yusuf will be able to swallow without gagging.

The crusader snarls, but does not belabor the point. “I wish - _if_ I wished an end to this holy war, a victory for Christendom, could you do that?”

 _I will deliver no victory to the side that betrayed and bound my Nicolò_. “I could,” Yusuf says carefully. Lying to a master is very, very difficult, but there is no call on Yusuf to deliver _helpful_ truths. “How would you like it done? Your lordship should consider the matter carefully before wishing for it. I could kill every Moor, and every Christian but one. Or perhaps your victory today would only inspire the Moors to strike back tomorrow, a hundredfold stronger. Your wish may come at a price you do not wish to pay.”

“It speaks the truth,” one of the soldiers mutters. “The Saracens’ stories warn of giving the demon a free rein in fulfilling the wish.”

Another snorts. “I don’t need the Saracens to warn me that demons are dangerous.”

Yusuf has not been commanded to address _all_ of them with more respect. He meets the eyes of the last man who spoke and is pleased to see him recoil. “Then why are you here, playing with one?”

“Enough,” the leader snaps. “I shall think on it. And when I have the answer, you shall know it.”

He turns away, lamp in hand, and reaches out for the saddlebag behind him. Yusuf feels fear grip him, cold and insidious - the lamp will go in that bag, and he will go in the lamp, and how is he to find his way back to Nicolò then-

_Yusuf._

The whisper of his name in Nicolò’s voice slips through the fear like a caress of Yusuf’s cheek.

_Yusuf, I’m here._

~

Nicolò is lying in a sand dune, trying and largely failing to see around its edge without being seen, and murmuring to Yusuf under his breath.

If Yusuf is so powerful as to turn the moon from its course, surely he can hear Nicolò saying his name fifty feet away. It is entirely unlike prayer, and yet Nicolò is unable to ignore the parallels.

God listens to all prayers, Nicolò knows that much. Whether He answers is another matter entirely.

But when Nicolò breathes, “Yusuf, I need a sword,” one emerges from the sand under Nicolò’s hand.

Yusuf cannot harm whoever holds the lamp, Nicolò remembers that. It seems that that protection extends to the person’s companions, or Yusuf would have struck the other men down already, at least. But it likewise seems that nothing prevents Yusuf from gracing Nicolò with three feet of sharpened steel, to do with as he pleases.

Nicolò grabs the sword and drags it out of the sand. He is not fool enough to think he has learned to kill a dozen men with ease in the last day, but…

“Yusuf,” he whispers again. “One more request. If you could grant me any kind of _skill_ with this sword of yours, I should be glad of it.”

This is more like prayer; Nicolò feels no different, has no proof of whether this plea has been answered. He must rely on faith in Yusuf, that he heard Nicolò and that such a thing is in his power to bestow. But with or without Yusuf’s help, Nicolò only needs to get to the man with the lamp - and quickly, before they all ride away.

Yusuf is dissolving into smoke again, being drawn back inside the lamp as the men prepare to leave. Nicolò must move now.

There is no hiding place, no cover. He simply stands and marches across the sand.

He recognizes them and his fury only deepens. Achard, Vicomte of Avranches, holds Yusuf’s lamp, and Nicolò has absolutely no compunction about taking it back from him by whatever means necessary.

He is seen, and recognized, in his turn. The shout of alarm goes up and all eyes are on him - shocked, horrified, appalled. Nicolò cares only for Yusuf’s, wide and panicked as he disappears inside the lamp.

Achard gapes. “What in the name of God-”

Nicolò lifts the sword. “Give me that, and I may let you live.”

Achard scrubs the lamp with his bare hand. Yusuf reappears, but when it is at Achard’s bidding, it is not a comfort.

“ _Kill him, damn you!_ ” Achard yells.

“Shit,” Nicolò says, letting the sword fall - it won’t do him much good now.

“As you wish,” Yusuf says, and folds his hands.

Nicolò does not die.

“I said, kill him!”

“You did,” Yusuf agrees serenely. “And I will.” But he makes no move to actually do so. Nicolò is sure it comes at a cost, but he continues to live.

He brings the sword up and advances again.

Achard roars. “Kill him _now!_ ”

If Yusuf were another man - if he were a man at all - Nicolò would say he flinches. The smoke surrounding him seems to roil, as if caught by a high wind. “Are you sure? That will be another wish on your account, which takes you to three-”

“ _Do it!_ ”

Nicolò blinks, breathes, face-down in the sand. His hand clutches at the sword hilt as his blood starts flowing again. However Yusuf killed him, it was swift and painless, simply dropping him where he stood - and most importantly, letting him revive before the crusaders made it away.

Nicolò rolls towards the nearest panicked voice and swings the sword through the air with all his might.

He strikes flesh, and bone beneath it, and the man shrieks in pain. Hot blood soaks Nicolò’s hand.

He staggers to his feet as the man collapses, and raises the sword again. “Give me the lamp!”

Achard thrusts the lamp at the nearest soldier instead. “You - command it!”

“My lord, it is unholy-”

“So is that!” Achard screams, pointing at Nicolò.

The crusaders mill like a kicked ants’ nest. Nicolò strides through them until one challenges him.

He sees the blow coming, and his arm rises to meet it. His foot shifts through the sand to plant behind him before the blades clash. The impact is heavy but Nicolò withstands the force of the strike, braced steadily. Without thinking, he twists his hand and sends his opponent’s sword flying, and then with an easy spin on one foot he thrusts his own sword through the soldier’s unprotected side.

Nicolò shoves the man’s body off his sword with equal smoothness, and finds himself grinning. His faith in Yusuf was well-placed.

Another man runs up. Nicolò seems to wait until some instinct makes the sword fly on its own, and the tip slices perfectly through the man’s throat - deep enough to kill him instantly, but not so deep as to get stuck on the bones of his spine.

He tries again. “Give - me - the lamp!”

Two or three of the crusaders have abandoned their efforts to mount horses and are fleeing on foot into the desert. Nicolò lets them go without concern. They will be dead long before they reach the crusader armies; they have no supplies, and in any case they are running the wrong way.

Nicolò is not sure what makes him turn around, but he does, and ducks beneath the swing of another soldier’s sword. He rolls across the sand and hooks both feet around the man’s ankle, then pulls to the side with all his weight until the man staggers and falls. From there it is the work of a moment to steal the knife on the man’s belt and shove it through his neck.

Nicolò climbs to his feet again. Four men dead or crippled and another handful deserted halves Achard’s force, and those remaining are looking uncomfortable and afraid.

Nicolò twirls the sword in his hand, a showy move he used to watch the princes’ bravos do. Nicolò never learned the trick of it until Yusuf did it for him.

He ignores Achard, and focuses on the soldier holding the lamp. “Give me that and you may leave unharmed.”

“Do not listen to the demon,” Achard urges. “He will kill us all!”

Nicolò twirls the sword in the other direction. “I will do that anyway if you do _not_ yield the lamp.”

Yusuf is silent throughout the exchange, hovering a small distance away, still insubstantial. It suits Nicolò perfectly well to have Yusuf half-forgotten in the fight. The command _kill him_ may do little more than slow Nicolò down for a few moments, but he does not want the crusaders to think of a command that would work better. Even _take his sword_ would give them a chance to escape with the lamp.

Achard’s gaze flicks to Yusuf in the same second. “We have a demon in thrall to us and a dozen chances to compel it,” he grinds between his teeth. “We outnumber this abomination six to one _without_ the demon!”

“And what are you going to do?” Nicolò taunts, hoping to goad him into action before he can think up any clever orders. “Kill me?”

Achard snatches the lamp from the soldier who refused to use it before, and shoves it into the chest of another. “ _Stop him!_ Tell the demon to stop him!”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Nicolò breaks into a run, charging at the man with the lamp. The soft sand slows him down, and the man need only rub the lamp twice and speak those words - “ _Stop him!_ ”

Nicolò’s body freezes in place, utterly motionless, and refuses to obey him when he urges himself onwards. Achard sighs relief, and gestures to his men to mount their horses.

Nicolò cannot even scream his rage. _No, no-_

Red smoke descends around him, blocking his vision, and then Yusuf’s voice is in his ear.

“Do you trust me?”

 _Yes_ , Nicolò vows, without needing to think. He cannot speak it aloud, but he feels it with every fiber of his being.

“Then stop fighting. Stop. Give in to me.”

Nicolò forces his mind to calm, his panic to reel itself in. He already cannot move; under Yusuf’s guidance, he must pull back until he does not _want_ to move.

“Well done,” Yusuf murmurs. “I stopped you. Now go kill them before they ask for something more permanent.”

The smoke lifts and Nicolò’s body is his own again.

The men all have their backs turned to him now. He runs across the sand but they are too close to the horses, too far away for him to catch up-

Nicolò hefts the sword in one hand and throws it, point-first, into the back of the man holding the lamp.

The blade drives through him like a spear and he drops to the ground, lamp spilling to the side. Nicolò has precious seconds before the others quite work out what has happened, and then all of them dive for the lamp at once.

Nicolò does not need to kill them. He does not even need to win the fight. He only needs to get Yusuf out of their hands.

He scrabbles for the lamp, fighting the crush of bodies on all sides. He feels like a boy wrestling with his brothers, but with the strength of a grown man and whatever skill in combat Yusuf poured into his bones, Nicolò’s kicks and jabbed elbows actually drive his opponents away.

Another pair of hands grabs the lamp first, and Nicolò summons every last reserve in his body and throws himself forward.

The lamp falls to the sand and Nicolò’s hand falls on top of it.

He rubs his thumb across the surface - once, twice.

In a flash of silver a blade severs his hand from his wrist.

For a long moment Nicolò feels nothing at all, and just stares at the fan of red spreading across the sand. _Oh, I thought losing a hand would hurt more than this…_

Then his vision goes white with pain and every sound is drowned out by the pounding of his heart, the agony in his arm spiking with each beat. It is worse than even dying, because it _lasts_ , and he almost wishes they had taken his head off instead of his hand so he did not have to feel this, slow and drawn-out and…

He had something to do. Something he _must_ do before another hand touches the lamp.

He forces his eyes to focus through the haze. He can see the lamp lying in the sand, undisturbed, his severed hand lying atop it.

The lamp he rubbed. The lamp he still - if he is lucky - commands.

“Be free, Yusuf,” Nicolò snarls. _And damn our enemies to Hell._


	3. Selenelion

Yusuf has not hated _every_ wish he has obeyed in the last four centuries.

There have been some which brought him amusement, because he twisted them around until he utterly ruined things for the person speaking them. Some, he could tell, would cause enough ruin on their own without his intervention, and those he granted with more than a little glee. Once or twice, he bestowed a hint of sympathy upon the asker, when they struck something soft within him that he couldn’t quite paper over in time.

No wish has ever felt like this.

The ecstasy of freedom at Yusuf’s fingertips mingles with the horror of Nicolò’s hand being cleaved from his wrist. The sight of it tore Yusuf in two; it is a struggle to pull himself back together enough to fulfill Nicolò’s wish. But he must. He has things to do with his freedom.

Nicolò is spent, bleeding from his wound and collapsed on the sand. The crusaders surrounding him have paused, unsure where the danger will come from, but ready to strike Nicolò down again should they decide he is a threat. And Yusuf…

Nicolò’s wish hangs over him, as heavy as any other and yet as light as air. For once Yusuf’s will is stronger than the compulsion to obey. It simply makes no difference, because both he and the lamp’s master want the same thing. With Nicolò’s wish behind him, and eagerness to destroy Nicolò’s enemies urging him forward, it is the simplest thing in the world to draw forth enough power to cut himself away from the lamp.

_Be free._ After all this time, it is done that easily.

The wish vanishes. The controlling, claustrophobic presence of the lamp vanishes.

The jinn power lining Yusuf’s hands vanishes too.

And the ground is torn away from under Yusuf’s feet and he falls, plunged into darkness.

Yusuf screams, hands flying out for something to hold onto, but the world is gone - this is a void, him and the lamp and nothing else. Power rushes through his fingers as it retreats into the lamp and away from him. He feels himself draining, siphoned off, evaporating into the ether. No, _no_ \- what is this, what has he _done?_

Understanding comes too slow, too late. Hasn’t he learned by now that wishes come at a price?

_Is a jinn without a lamp no jinn at all?_

Cold terror bites deep. If he is no jinn, what will be left? A mortal man, lost and weak, surrounded by foes he has angered enough to kill him. In an instant, Yusuf sees the moments that will unfold as soon as the lamp is done with him - the crusaders will slay him before he can muster the sorcery to protect himself, and he will die the way he has always feared he would, kneeling and powerless. Nicolò will watch, unable to save him, and then-

_No. I will not have it!_

That power belongs to _him_ , and he is not going to give it back. Is not going to _die_ in return for Nicolò’s bloody sacrifice, to leave Nicolò alone to face whatever tortures the crusaders can conceive for him.

Yusuf has fooled this lamp ten thousand times before. He can do it once more.

When he went to follow Nicolò, he called up a storm.

This is a hurricane.

Yusuf throws himself at the lamp’s power before it disappears entirely, sinks his claws into it, and drags it back with every ounce of strength he can summon. But if Yusuf is a hurricane, the power is a wildfire - it shrieks, seething, unwilling to let him take it, and it burns him everywhere he touches it. Yusuf sets himself to endure and holds it tighter. It fights off his grasp, and he seizes it anew, then again, and again, refusing to let the pain defeat him. It is a constant struggle, Yusuf’s mind whirling as he keeps up his attack, grips the power tight and pulls it in. Pulls harder, and harder-

In a flash, the power comes - _all_ of it, the entirety of the lamp pouring down on him at once. It overwhelms Yusuf completely, a speck lost in the flood, and threatens to drown him.

_I am a jinn,_ Yusuf thinks, and it is both a threat and a promise. _I do not need to breathe._

He throws his arms wide and lets the flood come. The scalding mass of it crashes into him, ready to crush him to powder or simply burst him open. It gushes down his throat and digs into him deeply, long tendrils reaching inside to rip him apart.

He bites down hard and cuts the lamp’s power in two.

The flood recoils, injured, and Yusuf can feel it panicking. Jinn magic is not a kind that knows defeat, ever - if a jinn without a lamp is no jinn at all, Yusuf is probably the first to break it in this way. The flood turns and flings itself back into the lamp all at once, leaving behind the part Yusuf claimed without challenge. Light pours into the void in its place, the world returning until Yusuf is standing in the desert again. He has no sense of how much time has passed, or how much of his fight leaked out into reality, but it matters not in the least. He only cares for one thing.

Nicolò lies at his feet, seemingly numb to anything that is not the agony of his severed hand, the smallest of whimpers pushing past his gritted teeth. Yusuf aches to hold Nicolò close and ease his pain, and he has taken a step forward to do just that before he realizes he cannot.

The fight is not won yet.

The power he took is writhing, restless, and Yusuf can feel it trickling through his grasp. Once parted from the whole it became as insubstantial as mist, and now it seeps out through every crack in Yusuf’s being. Closing them is futile; the more Yusuf works, the harder he holds on, the faster the little power he has drains. The lamp may have let it go, but he will not be able to keep it for long.

He wants to scream his frustration, and only keeps it inside because he fears the power will fly out of him with it. He cannot fail now when he is so close to victory! There must be _something_ he can do to contain the lamp’s power…

Perhaps it needs somewhere else to go, something to fill the role of the lamp, to house it until Yusuf seeks to use it. But if Yusuf cannot hold it…

A terrible thought occurs to him, and the power slips from his grasp.

~

Thunder roars in Nicolò’s ears. It is the first thing he is aware of that is not the pain rolling over him. His flesh is crawling, his scrambled mind turning away from whatever revolting, inhuman healing his wrist is forcing itself into. Bile climbs up his throat, searing as it goes. He chokes on it, heels slipping in the sand as he tries futilely to find something solid to ground himself against. The world is a blur of hurt and lost blood, and the oblivion of unconsciousness just below him feels like a waiting dream.

“Nicolò?”

A distant voice; the words are not important, but the voice is. He turns towards it. He can hold on a little while longer to find out what it wants.

He is gathered up from the sand and wrapped in a strong embrace, his cheek pressed to smooth fabric. It smells of cinnamon and cedar and the change in the air before the rain. _Very nice_ , Nicolò thinks vaguely. It feels like a safe place to be while his arm attempts to regrow an entire hand.

A comforting darkness comes over him, the light pressing red through his eyelids disappearing as something shades him from the burning sun. He is being rocked gently from side to side like a small boat on a calm lake, and the voice is still speaking to him, filtering down through the haze.

“Nicolò, please, come back, I have you - all is well, it is over and I am yours, only open your eyes and look at me, _please_ -”

The voice is distressed. It should not be.

Nicolò drags his eyes open, and raises his remaining fingers to Yusuf’s face. “You are upset.”

Yusuf gives a shuddering, disbelieving laugh. “You are missing a _hand_.”

Nicolò cannot see why that is important. He has far more pressing concerns. “You are… ill.”

Yusuf is pale, and there is something tight and strained in his features. He looks exhausted, as though he battled the entire crusader army alone while Nicolò fought Achard’s men for him. Nicolò frowns as he strokes his thumb over Yusuf’s unsmiling mouth. “What happened to you?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter now. My only concern is for you.”

“For me? What did I do?”

Yusuf laughs again, a little light coming back into his eyes. “I thought you promised to cease the stupid questions? You freed me, Nicolò. You took the lamp for your own and wished for it. And free I am.”

“Oh, very good,” Nicolò says, relieved. “I was not sure it would work if I were not touching the lamp when I spoke.”

Reminded, his absent fingers attempt to twitch, and the half-grown flesh sends a riot of pain up his arm. Nicolò groans and writhes in Yusuf’s grip. Yusuf keens and presses his forehead to Nicolò’s.

The contact helps Nicolò focus as he unwinds the tightness from his arm and wills it back into stillness. His flesh continues moving on its own, pulling itself sluggishly over new bones. The desert air feels like a brand against the exposed nerves.

Nicolò groans again. “Is it almost done?”

“Almost,” Yusuf promises. “Almost, you must endure only a little longer.”

Nicolò hisses as his thumb rotates and slots into place. “You can make me a swordsman, but cannot quicken this?”

Yusuf’s face contorts into an expression so wretched that Nicolò is sorry he asked. “I would, I would in an instant if I could, but your deathlessness is beyond me, I fear to-”

“Shh,” Nicolò soothes him, and curls his other hand behind Yusuf’s neck to pull him down for a kiss.

Yusuf comes eagerly, and lets Nicolò bring their lips together. Yusuf’s lips are soft - softer than Nicolò’s, he is sure, after months beneath a scorching sun with little food or water - and his beard curls deliciously against Nicolò’s skin. One of Yusuf’s hands comes up under Nicolò’s chin, tentative, holding him delicately as if afraid he will break.

A great weight lifts from Nicolò as the last fingernail pushes into position on his new hand. The pain is gone so abruptly that he almost aches with the lightness of it. He rolls to a better angle to scrub his palm against his thigh, trying to bring sensation into it that is neither agony nor this strange absence of it.

“Nicolò?” Yusuf asks, concerned again.

“I am well. Only sore.” On the heels of that admission, his body sees fit to raise a whole slew of complaints. “And tired. And hungry. And hot. And you have stopped kissing me.”

Yusuf smiles down at him. It is glorious. Nicolò wants to see it every day. “If I recall correctly, it was _you_ who stopped kissing _me_. You may take it up again any time you like. The rest of your ills - I shall see what I can do to amend those.”

A gust of wind stirs up the sand around them, and the sunlight dims towards something more like a comfortable fire. The oppressive heat of the day fades, leaving a light warmth so that Nicolò is still far from chilled.

When the wind settles, they are inside a tent not unlike the one Yusuf created earlier, mere hours ago when they met. The walls of the tent are lowered, keeping out the burning heat and light of the day. Yusuf has laid out another feast, more reasonably proportioned than the first, one heaped platter on a low table. This time there is also a bath, tub brimming with crystal-clear water, and a bed piled deep with pillows and blankets.

There is so much of it, all so enticing, that Nicolò doesn’t even know how to begin. Never in his life has such wealth been offered up to him. He is going to take it, nonetheless. Once he would have said that these were luxuries a man like him had no place dreaming of, but, well. There are no men like him.

It is still… a lot. “You will spoil me with your indulgence,” Nicolò mutters. “You are treating me like an emperor.”

“You deserve all I can give you and more,” Yusuf says, words low and curling in Nicolò’s ears. “You ended six lifetimes of slavery and imprisonment. This is a drop in the ocean of my gratitude.”

“It is more than a drop to me.” The bath first, Nicolò thinks, to cleanse the blood and dust from him - then food - then sleep. Yes. He climbs upright from Yusuf’s embrace and starts pulling his clothes off. “I take it gladly.”

“Oh, that is good. It would be rather more challenging to put these things back.”

“Back where?” Nicolò asks, tugging at the laces of his shirt. “You appear to create them from nothing.”

“I can do that too,” Yusuf says, suddenly on his feet and helping Nicolò undress. Though _helping_ is soon replaced by touching Nicolò’s bared skin with wandering fingers, exploring the breadth of his shoulder and the lines of his ribs and the curve of his hip down to his cock with equal reverence.

Nicolò catches Yusuf’s hand and pulls him over to the bath. He has no intention of discouraging Yusuf’s approaches, but neither does he have any intention of staying awake longer than necessary.

“Creating matter is all well and good,” Yusuf continues, as Nicolò dips a tentative foot into the bath. Cool enough to be soothing, warm enough to be pleasant. Water spills over, splashing gently, as Nicolò immerses himself.

Yusuf winks at him. “But stealing is more fun.”

“Stealing?” Nicolò repeats. His hands trace the fine engraving along the edges of the bathtub. “Stealing from where?”

Yusuf lowers himself until he is eye to eye with Nicolò. He does not sit, exactly; merely lets his feet and legs dissolve into smoke until he is at the correct height. “Agrabah, mostly,” he answers Nicolò’s question. “The crusader princes, of late. People who annoy me on their way through this part of the desert.”

“If you steal from people who annoy you, what did you do to the men who held your lamp today?”

“Not enough,” Yusuf growls. “I was in a hurry.”

“But you did _something_?”

Yusuf glances away, looking suddenly discomforted. “When I say _not enough_ , I mean… they may have escaped.”

“ _How?_ ”

“I was distracted by _that_ ,” Yusuf says, pointing at Nicolò’s bloody wrist. “They fled like cowards with an army at their heels, they were no danger to us anymore. I could not leave you behind to follow them.”

Nicolò hums understanding. There may still be merit in hunting them down later, if only so they do not convince the crusader army to hunt Nicolò and Yusuf first, but he cannot bring himself to do it now. Instead, he sinks his new-grown hand into the water, and scrubs at the congealed blood crusted thickly around his wrist. From there he only finds more filth, his own blood and his enemies’, and the dust of crawling through the dunes. Yusuf watches him quietly, murmuring if Nicolò misses a spot, and stirring a finger through the water every so often, which appears to keep it both warm and clear.

The bath is exquisite, but allowing his body to soften from the tension of battle has also allowed the exhaustion to rise up, making itself known in no uncertain terms. Nicolò sighs, and turns towards Yusuf. “I am no longer sure I can stay awake for long enough to eat.”

Yusuf smiles. “If you thought this was indulgence, allow me to introduce you to decadence.”

Yusuf pushes an arm under Nicolò’s knees, and the other behind his back. In a rush, Nicolò is out of the water and Yusuf is carrying him bodily to the bed. Nicolò laughs and clutches at Yusuf’s shoulder for balance. Yusuf blows air between his lips like a man playing a flute, and Nicolò is dry in a moment. After another moment, Yusuf deposits him in a mound of pillows on the bed, draping a silken sheet over him. Yusuf seats himself within arm’s reach, lifting the laden plate from the table by the bed. “Let me serve you.”

Nicolò twitches. “You don’t have to serve anyone now-”

Yusuf picks up a date in fine-boned fingers; on its own, the date splits in two and the pit vanishes. “I serve you because it brings me pleasure. You should allow me.”

“Well, if it brings _you_ pleasure…”

_Bless this food that I may eat of it_ , Nicolò thinks out of habit. The pointlessness of asking a blessing over Moorish food stolen by a demon strikes him a moment later, but it is too late to test his faith, as Yusuf has already laid the fruit on Nicolò’s tongue.

The date is the sweetest thing he has ever tasted, richness bursting in his mouth. He chews slowly, savoring every bite. He is greedy for another before he has even swallowed the first. Yusuf obliges him with a smile, and feeds him more after that one. Just as Nicolò reaches his fill of sweetness, Yusuf offers him instead a chunk of bread dripping with olive oil. That is hearty and solid, and Nicolò eats as much of that as Yusuf will give him, too. It _is_ decadent to lie back and not even lift a hand to feed himself, and he likes it very much.

That, and when he attempts to wipe up a drop of oil on his chin, he finds his limbs are too tired to move.

“You need sleep, yes?” Yusuf says.

“I do,” Nicolò admits, reluctantly. “Will you be here when I wake?”

Yusuf laughs. “Where else would I be?”

_“_ Anywhere,” Nicolò says, succumbing quickly to drowsiness. “You are free now to go as far as you wish.”

He thinks he hears Yusuf say something in reply, but he does not catch it on his way into unconsciousness.

~

Yusuf does not take his gaze off Nicolò for a moment while he sleeps.

The rest of his awareness is flung in a wide net, to ensure they remain undisturbed. He senses every grain of sand shifting in the wind, ready to strike should one of them shift underfoot instead. So far only a spider and a scorpion have dared to approach, not enough of a threat for Yusuf to waste his strength on. Still, he does not lower his guard.

He will not make the mistake of failing to watch their backs again.

Resolve steady, it is easy to be patient over the stretch of time that Nicolò sleeps. Yusuf is accustomed to having only his own thoughts for company, and after his sudden change in circumstances, he has much more than usual to think about. _A jinn without a lamp…_

He traces with shaking, disbelieving fingers the bare stretches of his wrists, freed from the shackles, for a good hour before he can bear to stop.

The sun dips below the horizon, and Yusuf parts the walls of the pavilion to let the moonlight in. Midnight has passed when Nicolò wakes again. He blinks for a moment, looking lost, before his gaze lands on Yusuf. Nicolò smiles, soft and relaxed, and reaches for him. Yusuf goes to him at once. Nicolò draws one of Yusuf’s hands to his lips, and kisses the back of it with reverence.

“For a moment, I thought perhaps I had dreamed you,” Nicolò murmurs into Yusuf’s hand. “That I was waking alone to another day of a pointless siege in a cruel war.”

“Never,” Yusuf swears. “You will never have to fight other men’s wars again. You will never wake alone again if you do not want it.”

“You learn kindness very quickly.” Nicolò laces his fingers through Yusuf’s. “I would like to kiss you.”

Yusuf’s whole being sings. “Say it again.”

Nicolò blinks at him, and repeats it carefully. “I would like to kiss you.”

“Again,” Yusuf pleads, and brings himself closer. “Tell me again that you want to kiss me.”

“Do you not know already? I always want to kiss you.”

Yusuf lifts Nicolò’s hand to his own lips, and copies the sweet gesture Nicolò bestowed on him. “Tell me I am lovely in your sight.”

“This you know too, I think.” Nicolò’s voice gains a confident lilt. “My eyes know no sight lovelier.”

“Tell me what I want to hear,” Yusuf whispers, brave and frightened all at once.

Nicolò lifts an eyebrow. “I met you yesterday,” he says wryly, “and you are a very strange demon, so you will have to permit me to guess what you want to hear.”

He rolls towards Yusuf, stretched out on his belly, chin propped in his free hand, other hand still holding Yusuf’s. “With a little more time, it would be easy to fall in love with you,” he starts, and Yusuf is already lost. “I remain unsure whether I am blessed or cursed with life, but I am glad of it now because it brought me to you. And I think I would be happy if I never left your side again.”

Nicolò smiles, and shifts so that the silk cover slides down an inch to bare his hip. “Or perhaps that is just what I wanted to tell you.”

Yusuf is speechless, and the only thing he can do is close the distance between them and give Nicolò the kiss he asked for.

Yusuf remembers kissing about as well as he remembers kindness, but with Nicolò it is easy to learn it. Yusuf does not know what he wants, but he is determined to find out. Nicolò does not seem to mind the way Yusuf explores him slowly, tasting his skin and drinking down his breaths. Yusuf likes the way the smallest of movements is magnified to a wave that can shake his core, and the way he can feel that Nicolò is affected just as deeply.

Nicolò frees a hand to cup the side of Yusuf’s neck, thumb settling in the soft spot behind his jaw. It is a simple yet delightful touch that makes Yusuf tremble. Nicolò coaxes Yusuf’s mouth open and then his tongue is stroking heat across the tender insides of his lips.

Yusuf gasps and all-but falls into Nicolò, balancing himself on the broad curve of Nicolò’s shoulder. He can feel the rush of blood just below Nicolò’s skin, all heat and vibrancy. Nicolò hums into the kiss, a pleased sound that reverberates through Yusuf’s entire being. Nicolò smiles against Yusuf’s lips; it gentles Yusuf’s disappointment as he pulls back.

“I do still need breath, I fear,” Nicolò says. His eyes are dancing in the silvery moonlight and his smile only stretches. “But I would be glad to lose it in other ways, if you are amenable.”

Bold fingers toying with the closure of Yusuf’s tunic make it clear what he is offering.

Yusuf captures Nicolò’s hand and lays it flat against his chest. “I am amenable, but there is something you should know about jinn magic first.”

Nicolò’s smile quirks with humor. “You could lift a finger and make me climax in an instant?”

“No - well, yes, I could, but - it is something else. Do not lead me astray.”

Nicolò, Yusuf thinks, is not at all sorry for it, but he subsides all the same, and nods for Yusuf to continue.

“I am not a man. I told you this before, but I am not sure you understood what it means. My body is not a body like yours, merely a form I can shape at will, a vessel to hold me. The vessel does not hunger, and I do not eat. It does not thirst, and I do not drink. It does not tire, and I do not sleep.”

He pauses, and meets Nicolò’s eyes. “The vessel does not lust.”

Nicolò lifts his chin, following the logic without difficulty. “And you do not fuck.”

Yusuf nods.

Nicolò muses on it for a short while, lower lip tugged between his teeth, before he shrugs dismissively. “I can take care of myself perfectly well. In privacy, if you would prefer that.”

“But Nicolò,” Yusuf murmurs, “why would I leave you to take care of yourself when I could do it for you?”

Nicolò pauses. “Oh?”

“You hunger, and I feed you - you thirst, and I pour you tea - you tire, and I carry you to bed… you lust,” Yusuf lets himself grin, “and if you will have me, I will fuck you until you forget your own name.”

“Even though it will not bring you pleasure?”

“It will not sate a craving I do not feel,” Yusuf corrects him. “The thought of you mindless and fallen apart at my hand? Of taking hours to make you climax so sweetly you weep with relief? Of finding out new parts of your body to kiss? That brings me much pleasure.” He caresses the back of Nicolò’s hand, still held to Yusuf’s chest. “You simply must not mind if I have no interest in you doing the same for me.”

“Then I shall do something else for you. I shall discover it, if you cannot tell me what it is.”

“You may discover me at your leisure,” Yusuf says, “after I am finished with you.”

“Oh, I see - you insist on seeing to my pleasure first. Well, that is a nice chance of pace.” Nicolò rolls to his back in the pillows, pliant as anything, and without shame whips the silk sheets off his lower half to bare himself entirely to Yusuf. “Now you, if you please, unless that brings you no pleasure either?”

Yusuf glances down at himself and realizes he is still styled in his usual high fashion: tunic, cloak, turban, jewels covering him from head to toe. He banishes it all in a whisper of smoke until all he wears is skin.

Nicolò gives a wordless murmur, and brushes featherlight fingers over Yusuf’s chest. “A form you shape at will, you said? I think you willed to be more handsome than you have any right to be.”

Yusuf draws himself up, pretending offense. “I’ll have you know that this form was mine when I was Grand Vizier of Agrabah, too.”

“Well, then, the Grand Vizier of Agrabah probably never got anything done for having aspiring lovers offering themselves to him.”

Yusuf laughs. “You flatter me. My position was more attractive than my person. My aspiring lovers were all hungry for power and ambition. I greatly enjoyed myself in taking whatever they offered, and disappointing them all in the end.”

Nicolò laughs as well. Yusuf revels in it.

“But you, my moon, the only light my eyes need to see by,” Yusuf says, and crawls on his hands and knees until he hovers above Nicolò’s prone body, “disappointing you is not my intent.”

“You could never disappoint me.”

“Allow me to prove it to you.” Yusuf lowers himself to taste Nicolò’s throat.

His lips and tongue trace all the delicate, fragile structures beneath Nicolò’s skin. The rasp of stubble under Nicolò’s jaw burns him so well he lingers there, mapping every inch of the bone. Yusuf has no plan; Nicolò is a feast he means to devour like an animal, taking whatever the moment urges him to.

Nicolò moans and lifts unsteady hands to touch Yusuf in return. Yusuf pins them back to the bed, either side of Nicolò’s head, his own hands wrapped firmly around Nicolò’s wrists. He likes this, something intimate in withholding his magic and using only his body - or the semblance of it, in any case - to hold Nicolò down.

“I will bring you pleasure,” Yusuf says, lips brushing the rise of Nicolò’s collarbone. “You will take what you are given and not distract me.”

Nicolò’s eyes, if possible, darken even further. “Do I distract you, jinn?” he murmurs, barely a whisper on the air. “Can the Terror of Agrabah not think with fingers in his hair? How does he like my voice in his ear? For unless you have another hand with which to silence me, I feel it will continue.”

“I could _grow_ another hand with which to silence you,” Yusuf threatens. “But I think I prefer other methods.”

The smooth expanse of Nicolò’s chest beckons him; Yusuf goes like a moth to a flame. Drags his tongue over a pebbled nipple, mouths at the curve of Nicolò’s muscles, savors the frantic thunder of his heartbeat. Nicolò’s skin is still clean and soft from the bath and Yusuf buries himself in it without hesitation.

Nicolò’s chest heaves beneath Yusuf as he draws in air, and his long exhales out tremble. He has not been able to find his voice again. Yusuf smiles against Nicolò’s sternum.

“If you will leave your hands where they are,” he says, “I will continue.”

Nicolò’s eyes flick down at him to assess the situation. While pinning Nicolò’s hands beside his head, Yusuf cannot descend any further without transforming into a rather longer shape. It could be done, of course, but he likes playing at humanity with Nicolò, and likes teasing him even more - Yusuf has no intention of giving it up.

Nicolò nods with a touch of desperation in it, his eyes falling shut. “You have my word.”

“Oh, that most precious and trustworthy thing, the word of a Christian.”

Nicolò drags one eye back open to glare at Yusuf. “I am in bed with a demon, I am not what you can call a _good_ Christian.”

Yusuf smiles, and tucks that particular diamond away to hold to the light at a later time. “Very well. I shall find out what your word is worth.”

He drags both hands down Nicolò’s arms as he draws himself upright, and for a moment simply drinks in the sight of Nicolò spread out beneath him. His raised arms make the sweetest show of surrender, head tipped back to bare his neck. A dusting of fine brown hair graces his skin here and there, casting the faintest shadow. Nicolò’s body already looks less starved than when they met yesterday, his strange recovery proceeding apace once given a good meal to work with.

“Do you like what you see?” Nicolò’s voice sends heat down Yusuf’s spine. “I never thought of myself as much to look at, but you make me wonder if I was mistaken.”

“You were. Inexcusably mistaken.” Yusuf runs two fingers down the sharp insides of Nicolò’s hips. Nicolò lets out a little breathy moan at that, so Yusuf does it again, then bends so he can do it with his tongue. Nicolò writhes, but keeps his hands where they are.

“Please, Yusuf,” Nicolò begs - oh, he is _begging_ , and it is glorious. “Please, more-”

“There is more?” Yusuf inquires. “What is this _more_ that you speak of? I am not sure I remember _more_.”

“Liar,” Nicolò gasps, and Yusuf smirks. “Please, have mercy-”

“I certainly do not remember _mercy_. Let us try something else.”

He crawls down Nicolò’s body and takes his hard cock in his mouth.

In his previous life Yusuf let others do this for him on plenty of occasions, but never found any of them worthy of him reciprocating. And he was perfectly right, since none of them could possibly have compared to Nicolò. Nicolò twists helplessly and fists his hands in the sheets to hold them still. His hips thrust up into Yusuf’s mouth, one foot kicking at the air. Yusuf grins around his mouthful. Such a little touch and Nicolò is already falling apart. A flick of his tongue makes Nicolò’s mouth drop open on a silent cry, and running firm hands up his lovely thighs makes him sob.

Wrapping fingers around the base of his cock and squeezing makes him scream.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò groans as he comes down from that, heels sliding in the silk sheets, “please, let me touch you, please-”

“Later,” Yusuf says idly, disinterested in anything but this. He shifts to pin Nicolò’s legs to the bed with his own and goes back to work.

Nicolò wails and his cock seeps fluid onto Yusuf’s tongue. Yusuf literally does not have the stomach to swallow it, so he banishes it somewhere else before he sets to pulling more out of Nicolò.

He keeps his eyes on Nicolò’s face, unnecessary for Yusuf’s perception, but he wants Nicolò to see him watching. The vulnerability in him is stunning; Nicolò leaves himself open and honest and defenseless, utterly given over to Yusuf’s touch. Yusuf knows what Nicolò’s touch does to him, and it is intoxicating to see what he does to Nicolò in exchange. The warrior who slew five men and lost a hand for Yusuf’s sake is now completely, helplessly lost in the pleasure Yusuf is giving to him.

It is a _far_ greater satisfaction than any physical release Yusuf experienced as a man.

Yusuf sucks down another inch of Nicolò’s cock, and rests both hands on Nicolò’s waist, thumbs tracing the hard lines of muscle he finds there. He can feel Nicolò straining, trying to push up into Yusuf’s mouth, greedy and desperate. This, Yusuf likes, too, the unmistakable evidence of Nicolò’s desire for him. Being wanted, being _coveted_ \- watching Nicolò obey his commands for no other reason than Yusuf asking him to - is worth all the centuries it took Yusuf to get here.

Yusuf lets Nicolò’s cock fall from his mouth. Nicolò sobs, bereft. “No, please-”

Yusuf surges up Nicolò’s body to kiss him, pressing their mouths together fiercely. The rest of Yusuf’s body follows, lying flush atop Nicolò so he can feel every inch of him. Nicolò whimpers a plea into the kiss, fists white-knuckled in the sheets, and in answer Yusuf drags a hand between their hips to work him to climax. Nicolò’s cock is steel wrapped in velvet, so hard that Yusuf thinks it must hurt.

Nicolò shudders, and bites Yusuf’s lip when he spills. Liquid heat coats Yusuf’s hand and smears between their bellies. Every last bit of tension in Nicolò’s body drains to nothing, leaving him boneless and limp beneath Yusuf. Yusuf lifts himself up on his arms to better admire the ruin he has made of Nicolò, and adores what he sees.

Nicolò is flushed and damp with sweat, eyes fallen shut and chest rising and falling as he draws in breath. His hands are still where Yusuf left them, but loose and lying open with no strength left. He is the very picture of a man well-fucked, and Yusuf did that, pleased him so well that he cannot even speak.

Yusuf lies back down beside Nicolò and pulls him into his chest. Nicolò comes easily, wrung out, and lets Yusuf settle him as he wills. He does not seem inclined to alertness any time soon. Yusuf entertains himself with stirring his fingers through the soft strands of Nicolò’s hair, and tracing his delicate eyelashes and red lips.

Everything is silent and still, the world at rest with them. The desert night beyond the pavilion is empty of anything but sand. Within, far better, there is Nicolò, breathing softly against Yusuf’s skin as he comes back to himself.

Eventually, Nicolò unfurls a hand and lays it flat on Yusuf’s chest. “You have no heartbeat.”

“Of course not,” Yusuf says. “I have no heart.”

“Oh, I think you do. You are generous, and brave, and kind.” Nicolò quirks a smile that Yusuf cannot see but can most certainly feel. “When you remember to be.”

His tone is light and joking, but Yusuf does not lighten with it. “If I have a heart, it is you,” he tells Nicolò sincerely. “You are the source of all my joy and the reason for all my goodness, such as it is. I did not live before I knew you.”

“You are unfairly eloquent for a demon who has spent four hundred years alone in the desert,” Nicolò says, but his voice quavers with unspoken sentiment. “I have no fine words to return you, as much as I wish to.”

“Do not be troubled by that.” Yusuf brushes Nicolò’s hair out of his eyes as an excuse to touch him, before realizing with a thrill that he does not need an excuse. “Your actions today were testament enough.”

Nicolò nods. “I can speak with actions,” he agrees. “I promised to find what would pleasure you.”

“You do not have to-”

“I want to. You should allow me,” Nicolò says, stubborn and beautiful, and raises himself to sit upright. “You barred me from touching you the whole time you saw to me, and I endured it without complaint, but now I intend to make up for what I missed.”

“Oh, you do,” Yusuf says. Provocatively, he stretches his arms out to the side and folds his hands behind his head, flaunting a good amount of musculature along the way. Nicolò’s throat bobs as he swallows, watching the movement. Yusuf smirks. “How would you like me?”

“Turn over. And if you could give me a flask of oil, I will try something I learned in Constantinopolis.”

“What kind of oil?”

A pause, as if Nicolò wasn’t expecting to need to specify. He trusts Yusuf more than any sane man should trust a jinn. “Anything you steal from Constantinopolis should be the right kind.”

“Careful,” Yusuf murmurs, but gives him what he wants anyway; a thread of power pulls a stoppered glass vessel of almond oil to his palm. It comes from somewhere much closer than Konstantiniyye, but he sees no need to mention that. “I could bring you just about anything for a request that vague. Greek fire is a kind of oil, do you know?”

“If you prefer me to rub Greek fire on you, I can,” Nicolò says. “But I wager you’ll enjoy my way more.”

Yusuf decides the prudent course of action is to hold his tongue, turn over as directed, and let Nicolò carry out his excellent ideas without further interruptions.

Nicolò sits astride Yusuf’s thighs, a warm and solid weight. Then he pours the oil over Yusuf’s back, and that is warm as well, and slick and soothing.

Then Nicolò’s hands spread the oil up to Yusuf’s shoulders, and slide down to his hips, and _that_ is perfection. With the oil between them, Nicolò’s touch seems magnified, sinking through the semblance of flesh into Yusuf’s being. Yusuf feels as though he could melt.

“Is it good?” Nicolò asks. “I thought, if you enjoyed my kiss, you might enjoy this as well.”

“If you stop I may go back to killing you.”

“Well, we cannot have that.” Nicolò’s fingers curl over the ridge of Yusuf’s shoulders and stroke oil across his collarbones. From there he descends until his thumbs are pressed into the divots in the small of Yusuf’s back. He moves again; Yusuf’s spine is traced by curious fingertips, his shoulderblades circled, his flanks just barely brushed in passing. Nicolò’s hands leave him only to return with fresh oil and resume their slow journey up and down.

It is like nothing Yusuf has ever known. A wealth of tenderness he could not have dreamed of before today. Nicolò’s hands feel indescribably good, as though they have slipped through all the armor of Yusuf’s powers and his rage and cradled the raw, hideous thing inside like it is something precious.

Yusuf sighs, and lets himself fall open the last little way.

And slowly becomes aware that something has changed. “Nicolò, why have you stopped touching me?”

“In my defense,” Nicolò’s voice comes, sounding amused, “you have made it rather difficult.”

Yusuf twists to regard him, and that is when he realizes that the body Nicolò found so handsome has dissolved entirely, leaving Yusuf nothing but a cloud of mist floating between Nicolò’s thighs.

_When I love,_ Yusuf quotes silently, _I become liquid light_.

“Indeed I have,” he agrees, instead of admitting that to Nicolò aloud.

“I will continue, if you can give me something solid to work on.”

At this moment, Yusuf consists entirely of bliss and satisfaction. Attempting to push himself back into a corporeal form sounds far too challenging, even for so tempting a reward. “I do not think that will be happening.”

“Very well.” With a good-humored smile, Nicolò rises from the bed, wiping his palms on his thighs. He locates the plate that Yusuf fed him from before he slept, and helps himself to a large handful of dates. “I suppose I do not need you to look human while I break my fast.”

Nicolò puts action to the words by putting a whole date in his mouth, chewing, and spitting out the pit a moment later. Yusuf is viscerally reminded that Nicolò was a soldier before coming to him. On the other hand, it isn’t a typical soldier who goes on to catch the pit and place it delicately back on the table.

Nicolò swallows. “Then we should discuss what we plan to do next.”

“Next?” Yusuf asks, distracted. He has discovered that if he curls up small and low enough, he can bask in the warmth Nicolò’s body left in the sheets. “Why should we do anything next?”

Nicolò looks at him with a wryly raised eyebrow, now stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth. A tantalizing drop of olive oil runs down from his lip into his two days’ worth of scruff. “We will have to leave the tent at some point. Or I will, at least.”

“Again, why should that be?”

“You may have forgotten this, but men do have other needs than eating and drinking. Usually arising as a consequence of eating and drinking.”

“Ugh.” Yusuf cannot exactly turn his back to Nicolò, but he can twist into a direction that says _away_. “I do not miss _that_ part of being human.”

“And since we cannot stay here forever, it might be nice to have a destination in mind.”

Yusuf’s first thought is that the only destination he wants to go to is wherever Nicolò is. Then he thinks of never having to see a desert again. Then he thinks of watching Nicolò see all the parts of the world that are neither desert nor whatever awful region of Europa he comes from.

“Your plan has merit,” he admits, facing Nicolò again. “Were you thinking of any destination in particular?”

“Somewhere the crusade has not touched would be nice.” Nicolò stares down at the fruit in his palm, but does not seem to actually see it. “The death and the cruelty and the suffering… it was not what I came here to do. I gave three years to that and it was not time spent well. I would like to find something better. To see some beauty for a change.”

Yusuf pulls himself back into a solid shape so that he can rise from the bed, and lay a hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. He hopes it is a comfort. He certainly does not know what words would be comforting - that following where his rulers led was not Nicolò’s fault? That Yusuf has done far more damage to the world than Nicolò could possibly have? That Nicolò has longer than most to atone for his perceived sins?

Nicolò leans back into Yusuf’s touch for a moment; perhaps that means Yusuf’s presence is enough.

After another moment Nicolò turns to face him. “There is one thing I think we should do first, though,” he says, biting into another date. “The soldiers who brought us here, who know what we are. They will surely tell their commanders about us, and urge our destruction. If we do not follow them, we could see the entire crusader army come for us. I would rather avoid that, though I am sure you could simply turn them all to sand or suchlike.”

“You should not rely on me doing so,” Yusuf says carefully. The words come reluctantly, but he cannot avoid this particular admission any longer. “There is… something else I must tell you about jinn magic.”

Nicolò goes still and wary. “Yusuf?”

Yusuf sighs and sits back down on the bed. “I told you that jinn magic requires conditions to be met before it can be used. It seems - and I did not know this - it also requires… housing. A physical source. When you freed me from the lamp, when my tie to it was no longer stretched but broken entirely, my power began to drain back into it. Not mine at all, but merely loaned to me from the lamp.”

Nicolò frowns, and lifts the plate in his hand before setting it down on the table. “Then where did all of this come from?”

Yusuf manages a wry smile. “I did not come all this way just to lose the thing that brought me here. I stole the power back before it drained all the way. Some of it, at least. A little. What I am trying to say is that I am somewhat… lessened. The power of that lamp was vast, the greatest in the world. What I stole was merely a fraction of it.”

“How large a fraction?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “It does not help to think of it like that. All magic has rules. The rules of this particular piece have simply changed. It fatigues me in a way it never used to. Creating this pavilion was truly _all_ I could offer you in thanks. I carried you to the bed rather than wished you there because of it. It seems there is a limit in how much I can do at one time. I certainly cannot turn an entire army to sand. Not anymore.”

Nicolò bows his head. “I am sorry. I did not realize that freeing you from the lamp would cripple you. I did not want that, I did not mean for…”

Yusuf aches to see Nicolò blame himself for any of this, and reaches out for him. Nicolò allows Yusuf to cup a hand under his chin, but he does not look up. “Please, my heart. Do not apologize to me. If I were angry with you for this, I promise that you would know it by now.”

That wins him the smallest of smiles, as though Nicolò was reluctant to part with it. Yusuf takes it gratefully all the same, and goes on.

“My power is less, yes, and I will never be again what I was. But what remains is at _my_ command entirely now, my choice when to use it and for what. I may be a weak and diminished jinn, but I am finally a free one. And for the power I have lost I have gained your touch in exchange. That is a worthy trade. But I fear that I owe you an apology for it.”

“What apology could you possibly owe me-”

Yusuf rushes on before he can lose his nerve. “There is one more thing I must tell you. Stealing back the lamp’s power was only part of my work. As it turned out, that was the easy part.” He does not confess to the burning agony the lamp inflicted on him and its attempted drowning; he sees no reason to trouble Nicolò with that. “The hard part was finding somewhere to _keep_ it afterwards. Housing, I called it a moment ago.”

“And? Where is it?”

Yusuf sighs, and points to Nicolò’s chest. “There.”

Nicolò lowers his head to stare at himself. He is silent for a long, uncomfortable time. “Would you be good enough to repeat that?” he says at last, though his tone makes clear he understood Yusuf perfectly.

“Where else was safe and trusted? Where else would accept such a thing from such a one as I? In truth, it was not a decision. My power gave itself to you almost before I knew it had done so.”

The grim realization that the only thing in the desert with him was Nicolò - the crusaders long since fled - had barely entered Yusuf’s mind before the power had flown to Nicolò and lodged itself in him, as though it adored him as much as Yusuf does. And perhaps that is so, but that does not mean Nicolò must welcome it. It is nothing Yusuf takes pride in, using Nicolò in this way, and he cannot yet tell if Nicolò will despise him for it.

It would be fitting if Yusuf’s freedom merely gave him enough rope to hang himself.

Nicolò drops limply to the bed, an arm’s length from Yusuf. “So, I am your lamp now? I have not freed you at all, only given you a prison of flesh instead of bronze?” His brow creases. “Could someone use me to control you?”

“No!” Yusuf insists, and thrusts his bare wrists at Nicolò to show the absence of his shackles. “No, I _am_ freed, I cannot be compelled into obedience. Your triumph is undiminished. You are not at fault for any of this. It is I who must apologize for forcing you to carry my magic.”

Nicolò shakes his head, and rubs a hand over his chest. “I cannot feel it.”

“That is good,” Yusuf says softly. “I do not think it will tolerate being removed from its housing again. And this I have not tested, but if it behaves the same as in the lamp, then the further I went from you, the weaker I would become. Though why I would ever willingly leave your side, I do not know. That said…” He straightens himself up and wrenches the words out. “I will not force you to stay with me if you do not wish to.”

It was Yusuf’s greatest fear before they met, to be parted from the source of his power. Now, it is even worse, for being parted from that source also means being parted from Nicolò. If Nicolò is displeased that Yusuf has used him as a vessel for his stolen demonic - or Moorish, whichever Nicolò finds more repellent - magic, all he need do is walk away and leave Yusuf crippled in more ways than one.

Yusuf would not blame him.

Nicolò turns all this over, before rising to his feet and standing in front of Yusuf. “Have you now told me everything?”

“Everything about my freedom and how I have treated you for it, yes.”

“And you think I will leave, having heard this?”

Yusuf closes his eyes. He cannot look at Nicolò, not now. “I do not know. I know what I want, for once in a very long time, and I also know I have no right to ask it of you. Do as you will.”

Nicolò is silent as he decides Yusuf’s fate. Then-

“I did not come all this way just to lose the thing that brought me here.”

Hope blooms in Yusuf’s chest, and he gazes up at Nicolò in wonder. “You…?”

Nicolò smiles. “I am not going anywhere.”

Yusuf laughs relief, and seizes both of Nicolò’s hands and kisses them. “Thank you, thank you-”

“Shh.” Nicolò frees his hands to brace himself on Yusuf’s shoulders, and then he is a warm, heavy weight in Yusuf’s lap, his thighs either side of Yusuf’s waist. “I knew when I came back for you that I did not want to leave again. I have not changed my mind just because I am carrying a little more of you.”

Yusuf wraps his arms around Nicolò’s back, and leans his head on Nicolò’s shoulder. “It is still more than I deserve. I could spend lifetimes trying to be worthy of you and not come close.”

“Shh,” Nicolò repeats. “This has nothing to do with worth.”

“I will try all the same,” Yusuf vows. “Shall I begin by killing those of your enemies I carelessly spared yesterday?”

“They hurt you,” Nicolò says coldly. “For that, I will kill them myself.”

Yusuf _must_ kiss him. He leans up and does so.

Nicolò kisses him back - oh, how delightful, that a kiss can be returned in the very same moment it is given. Nicolò’s hands come up to cradle Yusuf’s skull between them, fingers threading into his hair and stroking rivers of heat along the skin beneath it. Yusuf splays his hands over Nicolò’s back to touch as much of him as possible, feeling his thrumming heartbeat in a thousand tiny veins and strong cords of muscle beneath.

Nicolò breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Yusuf’s. “Give me a sword, and bring me to them,” he breathes. “The rest of the work is mine.”

~

Nicolò will treasure for a very long time the look of aghast horror on Achard, Vicomte of Avranches’s face when Yusuf drops him to the sand directly in the crusaders’ path. Achard’s horse rears and almost throws him to the ground, and the men behind him fare little better.

“I told you to give me the lamp,” Nicolò says. “You should have listened.”

Achard snarls, and tries to spur his horse to the side. Red smoke hobbles its legs, and it does not move.

Nicolò smiles unpleasantly. “You cannot flee this time. You can die on your knees or on your feet, but those are your only two options.”

“Fuck you, demon,” Achard snaps, swinging out of the saddle, and draws his sword. “I have done my duty to Christ in attempting to drive you from this world. If I die at your hands, I will be greeted by God and all the saints with praise and trumpets.”

“You did evil that good might come of it. I have never heard of that meeting with favor.” Nicolò raises his own sword to a guard position. “And I don’t think much of your opinion of _good_ , either.”

Achard charges.

His blade strikes Nicolò’s with a ring of steel on steel. Nicolò forces it to the side, and punches Achard in the nose. Achard jerks back with a cry, blood dripping moments later, and stares at the red smear on his fingers.

“Will you cretins _help me!_ ” he bellows over his shoulder. His remaining men reluctantly dismount and come to his side. Nicolò does not mind. It will make this faster.

Yusuf, it seems, made Nicolò a _very_ skilled swordsman. Five against one is not remotely a fair fight, when that one is Nicolò. His sword dances, as natural and light as an extension of his arm. Nicolò is thorough, but not particularly careful. He aims to kill them cleanly, but if they deflect his strike and instead take a dirty belly wound that will kill them a quarter of an hour from now, he does not exactly mind.

He saw what these men did to the women and children of the Holy Land. He is not inclined to go to much of an effort to show them mercy.

Nicolò moves swiftly, striking like a snake, blade rising and falling. The men surrounding him fall one after another, until he turns and finds himself unopposed.

The Vicomte of Avranches is bleeding to death at Nicolò’s feet. Nicolò sinks to one knee, leaning over him, an entirely deliberate impression of Achard’s conclave with Nicolò outside Ascalonia. Achard stares up at him, the hatred and cruelty gone from his face. In its place is the desperate despair of a man who knows he will die in pain.

“Demon,” he curses Nicolò again.

“It matters not now, but I assure you I am as much a man as you.”

Achard grits his teeth as a spasm of pain wracks him. “You have died,” he says when it passes. “What awaits me? What did you see?”

Nicolò sees no reason to deny him the truth. “Nothing.”

Achard’s hands fly up to Nicolò’s throat.

Nicolò chokes, his breath stopped. Achard’s grip is a vise, digging in so hard Nicolò feels his skin split under his fingernails. Nicolò fights, grabbing at Achard’s arms, but Achard will not release him, and Nicolò dropped his sword when all the soldiers fell.

“Kill me once more then,” he gasps, absurdly willing, “for all the good it will do you-”

In a flash of silver, a blade descends. Achard screams, and hot blood soaks Nicolò’s tunic.

He falls to the sand, throat burning, coughing on the air as he tries to breathe again. Achard’s screaming continues. Nicolò sits back up, massaging his neck, and turns to look.

Achard is clutching the stump of his wrist, pouring blood, and his severed hand lies in the sand beside him. Standing over them both, holding Nicolò’s sword and glaring at Achard like vengeance incarnate, is Yusuf.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, deceptively calm, and beheads Achard with another stroke.

Abruptly, the desert is quiet. Nicolò climbs to his feet, throat already healing, and stands at Yusuf’s shoulder. “I told you I would kill them myself.”

Yusuf shrugs, and lets the sword fall to the sand. “You were too busy letting him strangle you.”

“He was already dying. It didn’t matter if he took me with him. I would have come back.”

“It matters to _me_ ,” Yusuf says. “He made me kill you once already. Twice, counting another holding the lamp at his command. I did not mean to let him take your life again.”

“Well, thank you, all the same.” The value of Nicolò’s life has been a strange thing since his first death, sometimes precious, sometimes only a burden he would not have minded being relieved of. But if Yusuf wants it, he shall have it.

Nicolò rolls the tension out of his shoulders and lets his head hang. They are safe, for now; all the men who knew Nicolò’s secret are accounted for, and anyone who tries to rub Yusuf’s lamp again will find it empty. Their next move is entirely up to them.

Nicolò would like it to involve getting away from this place. They cannot stand over a pile of bodies and under the rising sun forever. Nicolò would also like to wash Achard’s blood out of his tunic at some point. And as eager as he is to escape the desert, he can only imagine Yusuf is more so.

_How_ to leave is solved easily enough. Nicolò suspects Yusuf’s powers are again close to exhausted, if he had to kill Achard by hand with a sword, but Nicolò is more than capable of getting them out of here.

They have the crusaders’ horses and supplies, and Nicolò knows where the crusader army is headed and therefore how to avoid it. They can travel that way as far as they like, conserving Yusuf’s strength. They can see the world at their leisure, as much of it as they choose. And when they are done with traveling, Nicolò thinks he will try his hand at a normal life again, put down his sword and find some more pleasant way to spend his time, something that does some good. Yusuf, Nicolò thinks, does not care much whether he does good or otherwise, but after four centuries of subjugation surely he has earned the right to be selfish.

And if that selfishness happens to benefit Nicolò along the way, well, then it isn’t truly selfishness, is it?

Yusuf takes Nicolò’s hand. “What are you thinking of?”

“How much I will enjoy spending my life at your side.”

Yusuf’s fingers grip Nicolò’s tightly. “That is unfair, my heart. I distinctly recall you telling me you did not speak with fine words.”

“I apologize,” Nicolò says, unable to conceal his grin. “I will take them back if you did not like them.”

Yusuf pulls Nicolò into his arms and holds him close, bringing their mouths a bare inch apart. “You will do no such thing.”

Nicolò’s grin only stretches, and he frees both arms to cup the back of Yusuf’s neck and draw him in for a kiss.

_You are mine,_ Nicolò vows silently as their lips meet and their tongues slide together. _Mine to cherish, mine to protect, mine to love. For all this and more I will never be parted from you again._

Yusuf hums pleasure into the kiss in a way that makes Nicolò wonder if he is still powerful enough to overhear his thoughts. Then he realizes it does not matter; he plans to make sure Yusuf knows them, one way or another. If Yusuf already knows, that is perfectly well with him.

Nicolò parts their lips, forehead leaned against Yusuf’s as he catches his breath. Yusuf, who does not need to breathe, speaks into the quiet space between them.

“You asked me yesterday where I would go if the lamp permitted. I refused to answer then, but as I do not require its permission anymore, I am ready to answer you now.”

“So where are we going?”

Yusuf smiles. “Have you ever been to Malta?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always, thanks due to my betas, [Apples](https://appleslostherpassword.tumblr.com/) and [Haldane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/).
> 
> Always, my tumblr is [here](https://ao3-arkada.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The line of poetry Yusuf quotes is by Nizar Qabbani, a 20th century writer rather than the 11th century or earlier to match the time period of this fic, but since we're drawing partly from Disney's representation of jinn, Yusuf can be a little unstuck in time, as a treat.
> 
> This fic began thanks to [this fanart](https://l3earfat.tumblr.com/post/625356520491712512/%F0%9D%91%A8%F0%9D%92%93%F0%9D%92%82%F0%9D%92%83%F0%9D%92%8A%F0%9D%92%82%F0%9D%92%8F-%F0%9D%91%A8%F0%9D%91%BC%20<a%20href=) \- go give it some love!


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